


Hope and Love Endure

by sweetfayetanner



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: 30 Day Prompt Challenge, Angst, Beauty and the Beast Fanfiction Celebration, Family Issues, Fluff, Humor, I'll add more tags as chapters are posted, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-11-07 22:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 29,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: 30 Days of Beauty and the Beast prompts!Day #19: "Cat" Belle helps Beast with an unsightly side effect of his current form.Day #20: "Sick" Belle catches a cold, and Beast finds himself in a panic.Day #21: "Dance" Belle and Adam reminisce in the quiet of Belle's cottage bedroom.Day #22: "Routine" To Adam's delight, Belle finds that some habits are hard to break.Day #23: "Lies" On the night of the curse's impending end, 3 lies and a truth are revealed.





	1. Morning

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my contribution for the 30 Day Beauty and the Beast Fanfiction Celebration! I'm going to stick them all in one fic, but they probably won't be related to each other at all. Happy Reading!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #1: "Morning" Lumiere and Plumette are newlyweds.

Plumette bounces down the steps, petticoats and hips swaying, as graceful as if she still had wings. Lumiére stumbles behind her in an effort to keep up, the rising sun piercing his vision, his head still swimming with too much wine. He would appreciate the sight of the sky awash in color, the golden-orange rays that fall across the palace grounds, if his legs did not ache and his head wasn’t drumming ceaselessly. But it is a _good_ ache, he tells himself (repetitively, so he’ll, in fact, believe it). It is a human ache.

Lumiére finds himself mildly disoriented, though Plumette continues to twirl on delicate toes while humming a wordless melody. The revelers part and move around her to their awaiting carriages; it’s difficult not to be transfixed, _enchanted_ by Plumette’s radiance. The burgeoning sunlight finds the shimmer of makeup on her cheekbones and the droplets of fresh dew on the manicured landscape that slopes away from the palace.

Plumette, his darling wife—his _wife_! _Sacré bleu_ , they are finally married, and it feels like a dream too fragile to touch lest he wake up—is a vision in the palest of purple gowns, the fabric drifting with her movements like the feathers she sometimes finds herself missing. She has one, an ostrich feather, dyed violet and tucked into the curls of her wig. Lumiére watches her dancing down the steps (they are _endless_ , he thinks, and curses at himself for over-indulging in their host’s lavish collection of wine), admiring everyone’s adoring looks. She flashes luminous smiles and wiggles her fingers, blowing kisses to newfound friends she promises to write to.

On their way back to the castle, their honeymoon drawing to a close, Lumiére and Plumette had stopped to let the horses rest and the driver nap. Without an inn or tavern in sight, they’d resigned to stopping on the roadside, until Plumette spotted the grand palace and turned a doe-eyed look (one that he couldn’t possibly, ever in his life, resist) on Lumiére. The neat, gravel pathway, lit up with torches against the evening sky, held a long row of ornate carriages, no doubt belonging to nobility.

Plumette had bounced excitedly in her seat. “This place looks familiar, no?”

Before Lumiére could answer one way or another, she was already slipping into her shoes and halfway out the carriage door.

“ _Ma chérie_ ,” he’d said, holding out his arm for her to take, “you have that devious look in your eye.”

Plumette grinned at him from under long, delicate eyelashes. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, _mon coeur_. No idea at all.”

They had not, in fact, been here before. Never in their lives. But somehow, Plumette had charmed everyone in their path, and with a few well-placed smiles and breezy compliments, they’d found themselves in the midst of a celebration.

A crowded ballroom (certainly not as grand as the castle’s, but the frescoed ceiling was marvelous) full of inebriated nobility, a table laden with delectable pastries, cakes, and the most extensive wine collection Lumiére had seen, and a night of joyous dancing. Plumette regaled their new friends with song, her voice resonating to the deepest corners of the room, so sweet and clear that Lumiére nearly lost his composure. They’d danced, and danced, until their feet ached and they could do no more than sway back and forth in each other’s arms; until the day crept up on them, breaking the spell of a magical, endless night.

Lumiére could think of no better way to end their honeymoon. And surely, there had to be no better beginning to their journey as husband and wife.

Plumette waits for him at the foot of the steps, and he holds out his arm for her, though really, it is he who needs her steadying presence. Her arm hooks around his like it’s meant to be there, and her head settles against his shoulder, a sleepy but content grin on her face. They climb into the carriage, and Plumette watches the palace shrink into the distance with her cheek pressed against the window, the same drowsy grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

The sun’s orange light filters into their carriage, bringing out hazel and amber flecks in Plumette’s eyes when her gaze finds him. Lumiére is still struck by the sight of her; it nearly steals the breath from his lungs. He is a fortunate man, favored by the universe, he thinks, for bringing Plumette to him, for giving them both a life to be shared together.

They stare at each other while the landscape passes in a blur, and soon their longing gazes dissolve into laughter. Contagious, infectious laughter that leaves Plumette clutching her stomach and Lumiére slouching into the back of his seat. He’s not sure if it’s exhaustion or the wine overstaying its welcome, but it takes several miles for them to be able to breathe again.

“Oh, _mon dieu_ ,” Plumette sighs, “I’d forgotten how terrible these shoes are.”

“Allow me,” Lumiére says.

He settles Plumette’s feet on top of his thigh, one after the other, carefully removing her shoes and leaving them on the floor of the carriage between them. It’s in those moments—something so simple, something he’s done perhaps a hundred times before—that his love for her blazes forth. He imagines the life they’ll share, full of these tiny, simple, pure, _domestic_ moments. And he can’t love her enough.

Heat flushes his skin, the space just below his throat, the tips of his ears. He knows it could be the sun that’s now fully awake, but it isn’t. In their cramped quarters, their knees knocking together while the carriage rattles across uneven ground, Plumette finds his eyes and locks her fingers around the lapel of his coat. Once their lips meet, lazy with sleep but eager nevertheless, Lumiére wonders how the entire carriage could possibly be left standing; it’s a miracle— _Oui_ , truly a miracle—that it doesn’t spontaneously combust.

His fingertips brush her cheeks as she slides into his lap. Specks of dust like embers float in the orange light, stirred by her petticoats. The sound of their breath, gasping, panting, breaks the quiet once Plumette releases him from her fierce kiss. Lumiére burns a trail of kisses, feather-light, across her jaw, down the hollow of her throat, to her collarbones and the swell of her breasts. The scent of lavender on her warm skin surrounds him completely, more intoxicating than the wine that’s run its course through his veins. He wants to drown in it, get drunk on it; he wants their sheets to smell of it forever.

More than anything, he wants to wake up to Plumette for all eternity; wake up and stare into those beautiful, brown eyes as the sun of a new day dances across them.


	2. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #2: "Jealousy" Belle wonders about her mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late (and short)!! I'm a little behind because I've been busy the past couple of days, but I hope you like this anyway. 
> 
> As a side note, this particular one shot takes place prior to the film.

Rain skitters down rooftops, a relentless torrent that leaves wilted flower petals scattered in their overgrown garden, stems and leaves broken. Belle had been curled up in bed with a book, listening to its pleasant, ambient sound, droplets running their course down the window in her room. When the cottage became too stifling, she picked up a few stray pieces of paper and a stick of charcoal nearly worn down to the quick, and made herself comfortable on the porch where the rain didn’t reach her. The air was cooler outside, with a clean scent of wet earth that seemed so omnipresent during springtime.

Her father’s singing rivals the sound of the storm—Belle hears his voice fade in and out while he’s surrounded by paint and canvas, their front door slightly ajar to let in the fresh air. She balances her paper on her knees, charcoal already staining her fingertips as it hovers above the surface. Belle finds herself distracted, her eyes drawn to the villagers braving the storm to go about their usual business.

A group of young boys, just finished with their lessons, chase each other around the puddles that have collected in the square. Their boots slosh through the water, soaking their stockings and breeches, until one of their mothers rushes over to steer them away by their coat sleeve. Another young mother takes shelter under the canopy of a fruit stand while her young daughter, barely five years of age, clutches at her skirts. She runs her fingers through the little girl’s hair before sweeping her up off the ground and balancing her against a hip. When the young mother presses a kiss into the child’s hair, Belle feels a pang of jealousy rip through her chest.

It’s a familiar sort of feeling—one that’s followed her from the moment she realized other children had mothers and she did not.

She and her father had gone from one town to the next, never putting down permanent roots, but still, the feeling lingered. This village was no different; in fact, it seemed worse. Belle thought that the more years she put between the present and her childhood would soothe the ache, but here, in this little town, she couldn’t escape it. Belle loved her father with all her heart, and she admired and respected him for doing the work of two parents, for raising her after unbearable grief, for allowing her to flourish into the intelligent, imaginative, headstrong woman she’d become.

Still, she was curious…what was it like, a mother’s love? Belle supposed it was similar to a father’s, but with something a little _more_ …something she couldn’t place.

More importantly, Belle wondered what her own mother was like. She’d spent many rain-soaked nights lying awake in bed, letting her imagination run wild, conjuring stories and adventures about a woman she had never even seen. What color were her eyes? What did her voice sound like? What parts of her lived on, in Belle herself? There was so much she didn’t know, so much that perhaps she would never know. Belle couldn’t understand, not completely, the pain her father had endured after losing his love, his sweetheart. But she wished he’d open up to her more, talk about her.

He couldn’t even bring himself to paint her. She existed only in his memories, and for that, Belle envied him. It seemed selfish, for him to keep her for himself, though Belle hated to think of something so cruel. She’d spent so many of her adolescent years in a constant struggle to pry information from his memories. Belle had only fragments to work with, as if she were looking at her own reflection in a shattered mirror.

Every year on her birthday, she would ask her father for a portrait of her mother. Tomorrow, she would ask again.

For now, she would wait. And dream, of a woman with warm, brown eyes singing a lullaby over the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Let me know what you think :)


	3. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #3: "Midnight" Agathe has a promise to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day behind, yet again. I'm going to try to catch up soon. But I hope you enjoy reading!

The storm follows Agathe through the dense woods toward the castle. A threadbare cloak protects her from the frozen wind that curls around her boots and makes the tree branches shudder and creak. Lightning races across the sky, turning night to day, chased by a near deafening clap of thunder that seems to make the ground beneath her feet tremble. Strands of hair that have escaped the shelter of her cloak are drenched with cold, freezing rain, as she struggles to walk in the midst of the bitter storm. Agathe can feel the chill seep into her bones, her clothes damp under her useless cloak. The storm is her own—she can bend it to her will, and as such, she isn’t susceptible to mortal vulnerabilities, which is a small blessing.

It’s a quarter to midnight, and Agathe has a promise to keep.

Agathe always felt that her magic was stronger precisely at the moment where two days bled into one another. There seemed to be something powerful in the exchange, under the cover of starlight. Her sisters used to mock her for the superstition; of course she knew that her magic came from within, but she couldn’t let go of the feeling that that magical hour—there was a mystique in the name, _midnight_ —aided in her own enchantments.

The power of her own magic sometimes surprises her, even after the hundred-odd years she has spent among mortals. Tonight she will need every ounce of it available, if the boy fails. She has a feeling—and it’s a sad, bitter disappointment that propels her steps forward—that he will. But, no matter. Agathe knows, in time, that he will save himself and allow himself to be saved by another. Even if it takes decades.

Some part of him is still that small, shy boy who sat atop his mother’s knee in the colonnade, the pair of them lost in a book. Underneath the wretched armor forged by the fists and words of his father, Agathe knows a good heart still beats. A kind heart, with a gentle soul.

Just like his mother.

In her final hours, Agathe had slipped into the castle, keeping to the shadows and the secret, cobweb-laden pathways to reach the lady’s bedchamber. The air in her rooms had been thick with illness, the candles melted down to stumps overflowing in melted wax. When the lady of the house found Agathe with cloudy, faraway eyes, she had attempted a weak smile, her pale fingers reaching across the quilts for Agathe’s hand. Her touch was cold; so cold Agathe almost recoiled. And her eyes, so impossibly blue, had drained of their wondrous color. She looked like an apparition in her nightclothes, dark circles beneath her eyes, her cheeks sallow.

“You haven’t aged a day,” the lady said, still smiling faintly. Her breathing was painful, ragged between words. “My dear Agathe, it’s…so good to see you.”

Agathe felt her lower lip tremble, but she breathed in deeply. “Let me help you,” she begged, whispering. “I can take this away, you and the boy can disappear…perhaps to Paris...”

“You and I both know,” the lady breathed, “the world doesn’t always work like that. Not my world, anyway. Magic cannot solve everything. We’re only human, unlike you.”

“It can, just this once,” Agathe pressed. “Let me. _Please_.”

The lady took Agathe’s hand between her own, her cold fingers seeking warmth. “Watch over my son, like you did for me,” she said, holding Agathe’s gaze. “Adam is a strong boy…he deserves the nobility his father abuses. He’ll outlive him, I know it. I know he will. You protect him, for me. You make sure that sweet boy of mine outlives his despicable father and sees his kingdom flourish.”

“My lady…”

“Will you promise me?”

“Yes.” Agathe forced back her tears. “I promise.”

Midnight had taken the lady of the house away from this world and into the next.

And so, Agathe had to wait and watch. Watch as the servants and keepers of the household turned a blind eye to Adam’s father and his rage. Watch as the boy retreated into his father’s wicked, careless habits. She thought about striking him down with her own hand, her own magic, but it seemed the easier, more convenient path. Her lady’s words echoed in her mind: _Magic cannot solve everything._ Agathe watched the boy from a distance, made certain that while the servants were too busy thinking of themselves, the young prince did not die by his father’s hand, or his own foolishness. She’d waited, instead, for the old man to depart this world, and he did so, slowly, painfully.

Agathe had hoped that, without his father’s influence, the boy would come to his senses. But he had spiraled deeper into that wicked place, the place of his father’s creation, spoiled beyond reason, hedonistic to the highest degree. Something had to be done.

There is a promise to keep. And tonight, just this once, magic can solve everything.

It’s midnight when Agathe reaches the castle grounds. The storm’s driving rain has turned to snow, though the wind and thunder continue their luminous battle. It’s midnight when Agathe plucks a red rose dusted with snow from her lady’s garden and shifts her outward appearance, trading her youthful skin and sunshine hair for crow’s feet, gnarled hands, and cloudy, aged eyes. Midnight gives Agathe the strength to burst through the glass doors of the ballroom and turn her enchantments loose on that boy and the whole of the castle. She leaves the winter where it is, leaves the snowflakes to drift in an endless gale, leaves the windows to the frost and bitter cold.

Midnight has passed, and the boy is now a monster.

 ***

While days bleed into months and months bleed into years, Agathe watches from a distance. The servants wallow in their shame, the boy, now a beast, drowns in his own despair. Petals drop from the enchanted rose in the West Wing, each one shaking the foundations of the castle, turning it from its shining glory to crumbling, dusty ruin. For a long while, even Agathe despairs, thinking the boy will fail her for a second time. Worse still, she will have failed in her promise to his mother, dooming him for all eternity. She knows there is a cruelty in what she has done to them all, but what she wants more than anything is to save them.

But, the time does not disappoint her, in the end. It is midnight when a young woman and her father ride into the village with nothing but a cart full of their dearest possessions and a beautiful white horse named Philippe. The night gives her a strong feeling about the young woman, who’s asleep on her father’s shoulder, a book still clutched in her hands. It is a good feeling, a feeling of renewed hope and purpose.

She is the one.

On the day that Agathe receives bread and jam from Belle, the bookish outcast, the compassionate soul, the strong-willed woman with a sharp tongue, she knows for certain. And now, all she will have to do is wait for her machinations to take root, for Belle’s path to cross with the beast, for another midnight where the force of their combined love breaks the spell.


	4. Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #4: "Bath" The household staff looks after Chip, and chaos ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this prompt. Hope you enjoy reading it!

“Stop! I order you to stop _at once_!” Cogsworth waved his arms in the air, frantically (his natural state of being), as he weaved through the hedges in the garden. “Lumiére, I warned you to keep an eye on the boy!”

Panting, he rested one gloved hand on his side, where a gnawing pain had presented itself after his mad dash toward the center of the garden. Cogsworth’s wig was on the verge of tilting sideways, his lopsided moustache twitching with worry. He found Lumiére and Chapeau standing beside each other, lost in conversation, seemingly unaffected by the sight of Chip sliding across a patch of grass that had been turned into a muddy puddle by the recent spring rain. Chip held fistfuls of the ruined grass, wearing a triumphant grin that reached his eyes as he dove back into the mess. He was covered from head to foot, his clothes no longer recognizable, his hair matted and sticking out in odd directions. Mud dripped off his fingertips and went flying off his clothes every time he made a quick movement. Cogsworth maintained a safe distance in an effort to keep his coat out of the line of fire. He winced and felt every muscle in his body tense each time Chip rolled around in the filth, despite the infectious laughter that echoed through the garden. Lumiére grinned, the boy’s mud-stained coat draped over one of his arms, his own shoes splattered. Chip’s shoes and stockings had been left behind on the pathway.

“Have you both gone mad?” Cogsworth demanded. “Look at the state of the grass! His clothes are in ruins! His parents are due back in an hour’s time—an _hour_ , Lumiére—do you know how long this will take to—are either of you _listening to me_?”

“Relax, Cogsworth,” Lumiére said, he and Chapeau finally turning to acknowledge his sudden appearance. “He is a child.” Lumiére gestured to the boy in front of him for emphasis. “Children are supposed to get into trouble and make a mess of themselves. It is a rite of passage! Chip is still making up for lost time…surely _you_ , of all people, can understand that, _oui_?”

Cogsworth huffed, indignant. “This has gone on long enough. Imagine what Mrs. Potts will—”

“I am sure she will not think it is the crisis you have turned it into,” Lumiére reasoned. “And unlike you, _mon ami_ , she has a sense of humor.”

“Lumiére,” Cogsworth exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll not ask again…”

Lumiére groaned. “All right, all right.” He turned to roll his eyes at Chapeau, though the sarcasm did not escape undetected by Cogsworth. “Chapeau, if you would be so kind as to fetch the boy before Monsieur Cogsworth develops another twitch.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Chapeau answered, in the same quiet, reserved tone of his, though the thinnest of smiles pulled at the corner of his lips.

Without a second thought, he waded into the massive puddle, the mud lapping at his shins. He surprised himself with how much he didn’t care that his shoes and stockings would be plastered in it. In the days they were living now, the curse behind them, Chapeau found himself embracing spontaneity and letting go of caution. Cogsworth would do well to embrace the same, but it seemed that not everyone could free themselves of their old habits.

“Come, _mon petit_.” Chip burst into giggles when Chapeau seized him around the middle and hoisted him over one shoulder. Mud smeared across Chapeau’s coat and splattered onto his cravat as the boy squirmed in his grip. He could feel it dampening his breeches, making a mess of the crisp, black fabric.

“Five more minutes,” Chip protested.

“No, no,” Cogsworth said, leading them out of the garden toward the castle. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“No I haven’t,” Chip retorted, his brows knit together under a layer of mud that was beginning to dry.

Lumiére laughed. “You see what you’ve done now? You’ve spoiled the boy’s fun.” He knocked his elbow into Chapeau’s side as they walked next to each other. “Tomorrow is another day, _mon petit homme_. And Chapeau and I will see to it that you spend as much time as you want making a mess of things.” He winked at Chip. “Isn’t that right, Chapeau?”

Chapeau grinned. “Of course.”

“Insufferable.” Cogsworth wrenched open the door, allowing them to walk ahead. “Both of you.”

Chapeau set Chip down on his own two feet when they’d reached the middle of one of the main hallways. He and Lumiére had already tracked mud onto the stone and marble floors from their soiled shoes, and Chip left a trail of it in his wake, from his hair and the sleeves of his shirt, which no longer held a trace of white linen. Cogsworth gasped at the dirty footprints, keeping a close eye on Chip.

“Don’t touch _anything_. We must to get you to the nearest bathtub, at once. The sooner, the better,” he advised. “Keep off the rugs, stay away from the tapestries—”

“I _know_ ,” Chip groaned, sharing Lumière’s exaggerated eye roll this time.

“ _Cogsworth_.” Lumière’s sharp interruption echoed in the cavernous hallway. “You are wound tighter than a coiled spring, old man. Let the boy _live_.”

“Oh, what do we have here?” Plumette emerged from one of the corridors, her cream colored dress floating after every graceful step. She ruffled Chip’s hair with her lithe fingers then leaned over him, cautiously, to share a chaste kiss with Lumiére.

“Careful, _chérie_ ,” Lumiére warned when Plumette left another kiss on his forehead, “I do not want you to stain your clothes.”

“I’ve had a lifetime of being careful, _mon amour_.” Plumette lowered to Chip’s height and took his chin in her hand while he beamed up at her. “Monsieur Cuisinier said you were out in the garden having fun. And did you?”

Chip nodded furiously, still wearing a delighted grin.

“Until Monsieur Overgrown Pocket Watch cut it short,” Lumiére muttered. He took on a mocking tone, imitating Cogsworth’s flustered, uptight declarations. “Oh, the tapestries! The boy’s clothes! _Ruined_! How will we ever survive?!”

“I sound nothing like that.”

“Have you ever listened to yourself talk, _mon ami_?”

“Of course I have! But I don’t know what you would call that, other than a gross exaggeration.”

“I exaggerate nothing—”

“Gentlemen,” Plumette cut in, gently, “there is no need to argue. I assure you, Monsieur Cogsworth, every speck of dirt will be lifted from these floors until they shine anew.” She poked the end of Chip’s nose with a delicate fingertip. “And as for you, _mon petit_ , luckily I’ve had the foresight to draw a bath. Follow me.”

Chip hopped down the corridor after Plumette, Chapeau following behind. They could still hear Lumiére and Cogsworth’s argument flaring up again, muffled, playful angry tones reaching the door of the washroom. The room itself was bright and hazy with steam that left a fog on the mirror of the vanity table sitting in the corner. A claw foot tub in the room’s center had been filled with warm, soapy water, steam coiling in the air over the layer of bubbles. It smelled of lavender soap, a bar of which sat on a small table near the tub, in between brushes, clean cloths, and towels.

Plumette stirred the top of the water with her fingertips as Chip struggled out of his waistcoat and shirt, leaving them in a dirty heap in one corner. Still dressed in a pair of muddy breeches, Chip let out a surprised yelp when Chapeau lifted him into the tub. The mud blossomed dark brown in the clear water almost instantly, earning a dramatic face of disgust from Plumette, who then dissolved into giggles.

“No worries, _mon cher_ _garçon_ ,” she hummed, rounding the tub, “we will have you clean in no time.”

Chapeau shed his ruined coat and left in the pile with Chip’s clothes. He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, armed himself with a scrub brush, and began working the mud off Chip’s legs and feet. Chip squirmed in Chapeau’s grasp, giggling and squealing.

“That tickles!”

Chapeau raised a devious eyebrow. “Oh?”

The brush hovered over Chip’s exposed toes, one of his ankles still in Chapeau’s grip. He reached under the water to find the other one; in an attempt to evade Chapeau’s hands, Chip tried to move away, but ended up sloshing the water over the sides of the tub onto the marble floor. Chip’s wild, flailing arms splashed soapy water in Plumette’s face and down the front of her dress, though she paid no mind to it—it was just water, to begin with. She relished every moment that she could experience anything human. Chip’s joy was her own.

Chapeau finally caught Chip’s other foot, taking the scrub brush to the dirt plastered on his skin. In retaliation, he brought his hand down hard on the surface of the water, hitting Chapeau square in the face with a torrent. He gasped in surprise, powered makeup now running down his cheeks with the ribbons of water.

He released Chip’s foot. “You put up a good fight.”

He left the scrub brush on the table and bent down, retrieving a bucket of warm water that he poured over Chip’s head in one fluid motion. Chip yelped, splashing blindly while the water blurred his vision. Chapeau splashed back to defend himself, but ended up getting Plumette right in the face.

“My apologies—” His eyes were wide, seeking Plumette’s own.

“It is nothing, Chapeau,” Plumette assured. She flicked water in his direction. “See?”

And so their battle continued. Plumette massaged soap into Chip’s hair, working out the tangles and mud as he and Chapeau launched water at each other. It was good to hear their laughter, see Chapeau smiling broadly, more than Plumette had ever seen before they had been placed under the spell. Out of everyone in the household, no one provoked such a response from Chapeau, perhaps with the exception of Lumiére.

Soon, there was water all over the glossy floor and Chapeau and Plumette found themselves soaked, but at least Chip was finally clean. Chapeau hoisted Chip out of the grimy tub and let Plumette wrap him in an oversized, fluffy towel. His hair, halfway dry, stuck out in every direction still, the rest of him buried in the depths of the towel. Chapeau scooped him up into his arms, dropped a kiss on Plumette’s cheek, and he and Chip were off on the next adventure.


	5. Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #5: "Leather" Stanley helps LeFou move on after the events at the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy DVD release day!!! 
> 
> This is my first LeFou x Stanley fic. I hope it's decent. Happy reading!

LeFou hovered on the edges of the courtyard, squinting up at the bright summer sun that had replaced the gloom and bitter cold. The crowd of villagers began to thin out; once reunions had been made, most of them were already on the journey back to Villeneuve to start a new chapter in their lives. A nagging part of him had kept an eye out for Gaston, though truth be told LeFou wasn’t sure if he wanted to see him again. Once it became quite clear that Gaston wasn’t going to come striding into the courtyard, LeFou still found himself curious about his fate. He knew, of course, that the worst had happened, that Gaston had gone charging up to the highest floors of the castle seeking a beast and a man—a _prince_ —had emerged instead, Belle at his side.

He had felt a small amount of relief, if he was honest with himself.

LeFou waited for a break in the well-wishers shaking hands and curtsying to Belle and their forgotten prince. He did so reluctantly, hands clasped behind his back, his head hanging in what felt like shame, eyes hidden behind strands of disheveled hair. Maurice stood on the other side of Belle now, and LeFou could barely meet his gaze. There were too many apologies to make and far too many regrets to go along with them. How long would it take to rid his shoulders of the weight?

“Monsieur LeFou.” To his genuine surprise, Maurice didn’t, in fact, want to level him with a right hook. Instead, his hand was outstretched, waiting for LeFou to make sense of the situation and take it.

He did, slowly. He had some vague awareness that his mouth was hanging open, and all of the words and apologies he wanted to make vanished into the air.

“I…I’m…so, _so_ sorry, Maurice,” he finally managed. LeFou hoped he sounded sincere and not like an utter idiot. “I should have…I should’ve done a lot of things, actually. And you…you didn’t deserve any of that. I’m…Gaston, he—”

Maurice’s eyes were kind. Far too kind. “It’s all right, my dear boy,” he said. “Everything turned out all right in the end.”

“I was a coward,” LeFou said, voice quiet.

“You were trying to protect yourself,” Maurice answered. “Now that you’re out of his shadow, you’ll find your way again. I know it.”

Belle smiled at him. “Mrs. Potts told me you defended the castle,” she said. “I’m glad to see you’ve had a change of heart.”

LeFou attempted something that looked like a grin, though it faded as he bowed his head again. “I have to ask…” He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Gaston, he…”

Belle’s normally soft, brown eyes hardened, though her ire wasn’t meant for him. “He fell,” she told him, “from the tower of the West Wing. The stone gave out beneath his feet.”

LeFou kicked at a rock with his shoe, his emotions waging an internal war. “Right.”

He should have felt relief. Why, then, did the disappointment insist on lingering?

The man had left him to be crushed by a sentient harpsichord and only seemed to offer praise whenever LeFou bolstered his enormous ego. He couldn’t immediately recall an occasion where Gaston had done anything good for him, except perhaps getting him home from the war in one piece. But that had been some time ago now, and upon their return to the village, Gaston’s narcissism had reached atmospheric levels. He should have realized sooner rather than later that the war hero he’d once worshipped had only kept him close at hand in order to keep his ego perpetually inflated. And now, because of it, LeFou had too many past mistakes to haunt his conscience.

LeFou bid his farewells and started the slow walk around the castle to the West Wing. He could hardly believe how quickly things had changed, how the sun had risen and winter disappeared in the blink of an eye. He inhaled the fresh, warm breeze, hoping it would cleanse and absolve him.

It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps chasing after him. He whirled around and almost collided with Stanley, who was still dressed in the elegant pink gown gifted to him by the singing wardrobe. His towering wig seemed to be missing, and the layer of makeup had been wiped away. Ink-black hair brushed the tops of his shoulders in a mess of tangles, slightly windswept.

LeFou quirked an eyebrow, about to open his mouth to speak, but Stanley got there first.

“I did not want you to go alone,” he explained. “I figured you had gone looking for him.”

They continued in silence, though LeFou did not find it uncomfortable. If anything, he felt more at ease than he could remember being in a long while. Every time the backs of their hands accidentally brushed, skin upon skin, LeFou’s breath hitched. He couldn’t tell if he was imagining Stanley inching closer, fingers almost reaching for his. But he hoped Stanley couldn’t tell that his face had turned a light shade of pink. If he did, LeFou decided he would blame it on the heat that the sun had brought with it.

The two of them searched the grounds that surrounded the West Wing—no hidden alcove went unchecked. No man, not even the mighty hunter and war hero, could have survived a fall that far. Yet, there were no boot prints, no blood, and no sign of a body. It was as if the man had never existed, no trace of his violent end left on the earth.

Except for his coat.

LeFou lowered onto a knee and picked it up from the ground, laying it across his thigh. He brushed his fingertips across the worn, red leather and thumbed the gleaming buttons adorned with antlers. The coat had been a gift, once. LeFou’s way of saying thank you, for getting him home alive, for escaping the stress and bloodshed of battle as friends. It had taken him weeks to scrape enough coin together; LeFou had never owned anything as expensive as this, but at the time, Gaston had deserved it.

“Am I a fool for thinking we were actually friends?” He didn’t look at Stanley, but he could hear him approach, his skirts rustling. “I believed it for so long…why couldn’t I see what everyone else already could?” LeFou rose to his feet, the leather coat still in his hands.

“We were all under his spell, no?” Stanley offered, forcing LeFou’s eyes to him. “The dashing war hero. None of us could know that, LeFou. That he could manipulate us so terribly, make us act on our worst fears. We were all blind.”

“I…” LeFou sighed, heavily. “I don’t know who I am, without him, y’know? After the war, things changed— _I_ changed—and I spent too much time trying to be someone I wasn’t. And now I’ve…lost myself.”

Stanley reached out and took LeFou’s face between his palms, gently, and LeFou immediately forgot how to breathe. The space between them became nonexistent. A breath later, LeFou found his lips captured by Stanley’s, and it felt natural, easy, to give in. One of Stanley’s hands left LeFou’s cheek, moving between them to pull the leather coat from LeFou’s grasp. LeFou let go of it without protest, and heard it drop between their feet. What he thought would be the most difficult task of all became the simplest, the one that made the most sense, with Stanley’s guiding presence.

Stanley was panting when they broke apart. He rested his forehead against LeFou’s. “Well,” he breathed, “perhaps I can help you with that.”

LeFou found himself grinning against Stanley’s lips. “Lead the way.”


	6. First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #6: "First" Pere Robert finds a kindred spirit in Belle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live a Pere Robert appreciation life. He's one of the sweetest characters in the whole movie.

The air is so crisp that it carries a scent, something sharp and raw, promising snowfall. Not now, perhaps, but soon. Fog rolls through the valley, hanging low in the streets of the village. Leaves swirl across the cobblestones, collect on stairs and rooftops. The trees are almost bare, the last of the yellows and oranges curling on the branches, color gradually leeched away by the chilly air.

It’s the time of year that Père Robert likes most. It reminds him of his childhood on the outskirts of Bordeaux, in a small town such as this; comfortable afternoons in front of a roaring hearth, the aroma of his mother’s cooking drifting through their modest home, he and his father sitting in companionable silence, reading, as the wind howled against the drafty panes. All of that seems a lifetime away, but there they exist as fond memories that rise from his past every autumn.

Père Robert borrows into his great coat, sitting on the front steps of his small church. While the rest of the town goes about their usual business, he has his own routines. No one ever seemed to notice. He’d once thought that taking over a tiny parish such as this would mean a slower pace, but that wasn’t Villeneuve.

Despite the bitter wind that bites at his face and fingertips, he’s made himself comfortable, morning services already finished. A cup of tea cools on the step beside him. A book is open across his lap, pages yellowed and ear-marked, the spine threatening to come loose. Usually he’s engrossed in a theology text or philosophy or history, but today it’s poetry. The words are calming, though he’s read them many times before. It never ceases to amaze him, how they dance around each other, push and pull, lyrical and evocative.

“You’re the first person I’ve seen lost in book here,” a melodic voice says.

Père Robert looks up from the pages to see a young woman standing at the bottom of the steps. He knows her—the newcomer, the daughter of the painter, Maurice. It’s hard to forget a new face in a town where outsiders do not often settle. Villeneuve is a tight-knit village; Père Robert knows the difficulties of being accepted by them. Most days he still feels as though he doesn’t quite belong here, either. The young woman and her father had arrived into town very early one morning last week, and he had introduced himself in passing.

“Sorry,” she continues. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s quite all right. Belle, is it?”

She smiles at him. “You remembered.”

“I know every face in town,” he answers. “And you’re the first to take an interest in my book.”

Belle’s smile falters, warm brown eyes brimming with what he could only recognize as disappointment. “So I’ve learned. The headmaster of the boys’ school looked personally offended when he spotted me reading on my porch yesterday.”

“Well, I, for one, am glad to finally have a bookworm in Villeneuve,” he says. “Would you like some tea? I have more warming on the hearth inside. It’s getting colder out here.”

“No, thank you,” Belle says, the shy, pleasant smile returning to her face. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, though she’s bundled in a cloak. “May I ask what you’re reading?”

Père Robert grins. “Of course.” He leaves his tea cup on the step and climbs down to her, book tucked under his arm. “The great Bard himself. Shakespeare. I’ve had this book of poems for a very long time.”

“Shakespeare,” she exhales, saying the name with all the reverence he gives to daily prayers. Their breath clouds the air between them. “I’ve only read a couple of his plays—he’s…he’s _excellent_. I could never get any of his other work. Papa and I moved around too much, and never anywhere with a decent library.”

“I’m afraid Villeneuve is lacking there, too,” he says. This disappointment is in her eyes, again, but her face is still bright at the mention of Shakespeare. She stares at the book in his grasp as if she’s trying to mentally turn its pages and discover its magic. “But, I do have a personal collection of books that might be of interest to you. You’re welcome to borrow anything you want, anytime.”

“Really?”

“The greatest joy of reading is sharing your books with someone else who’ll appreciate them the same way you do.” He holds the book of poetry out to Belle. “If you like it, it’s yours.”

“I couldn’t,” Belle says, looking at him in disbelief.

Père Robert is insistent, pressing the book into her open hands. “I’ve read it more times than I can count, and I can probably recite half of it by memory. It’ll mean more to me knowing you’ll give it a good home.”

Belle is breathless. “Thank you.” She takes it from him, carefully, and hugs it against her chest. “Thank you _so much_ , Père Robert.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” he replies. “Welcome to Villeneuve, from one bookworm to another.”

She grins at him one more time, before disappearing down the road, leaves crunching underneath her boots. Père Robert laughs—it’s about time the village gained someone with a sense of adventure, he thinks, picking up his teacup from the step.

He takes a sip of the lukewarm tea and contemplates rearranging his book collection. 


	7. Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #7: "Bright" Winter falls on the castle again, and Belle has a score to settle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your comments and kudos! 
> 
> This chapter was a lot of fun. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

Adam stands on the balcony of the West Wing, arms crossed, a deep crease between his brows. Freezing air slithers in from outside through the glass panes that keep the balcony sheltered, but he doesn’t feel it much—ever since the transformation he’s found that he still runs hot, as though his mortal body hasn’t quite figured out it’s no longer covered in a layer of thick fur. He’s already dressed for the day, though he hasn’t yet managed the effort of putting on stockings or shoes, leaving his toes susceptible to the growing chill. Which might have been for the best, he muses, because now that he’s had a proper look outside after shaking off the haze of sleep, it appears as though he might be needing boots instead.

Belle hasn’t yet fully entered the waking world. She’s drifted between consciousness and slumber for the past hour or so, despite his best attempts at rousing her. She’d been up late last night, on a continuous loop of “just one more chapter,” and truly he didn’t know what time she’d finally gone to sleep, because he’d done so first. Adam turns around, a lopsided grin on his lips at the sight of her. Belle is nothing but a mess of chestnut hair, the rest of her buried comfortably in the tangle of quilts and bed linens. It’s a wonder that she gets cold so easily, when she’s sleeping beside him; most nights he radiates more heat than the fire burning in the hearth.

“Are you ever going to join me, or are you content to sleep all day?”

“Mmm.”

“I don’t think that qualifies as an answer, darling.”

Belle makes another noise of indifference, and the quilts move, ever so slightly. Adam thinks he can see her forehead, but her hair is messier than his beastly mane used to be. He gives up on a battle he knows he won’t win, leaves a kiss pressed into Belle’s hair—she smells divine, like wood smoke and rose water—and goes to seek out Mrs. Potts for a bracing cup of tea to begin his day.

 ***

 _It’s beautiful_ , Adam thinks, _but I hate it_.

The gardens are covered in a blanket of snow that reaches just below Adam’s shins. Ice clings to the branches of the barren trees, forms peaks where the water has frozen down the rooftops and turrets. It glistens in the late morning sun, reminds him of the afternoons he and Belle spent walking by the icy lake during their eternal winter. Those are good memories, most of them, but why did winter have to visit them again so soon?

The snow is so bright that it’s nearly blinding from the sun that looms overhead. Adam has to squint against it as he trudges through the gardens, leaving a neat path of boot prints in his wake. His great coat is unbuttoned, one side of it lifting in a gust of wind that accompanies his uneven steps. Aside from the wintry conditions and the brisk air that threatens to steal the breath from him, it looks as though they will have a gorgeous day ahead of them, without a cloud in the sky.

And, at the end of it all, it brings Adam some comfort to know this winter won’t last forever.

Adam stops, his breath misting in front of his face, his cheeks almost numb with cold. The air is piercing, but it smells clean, and some small part of him is thankful to be experiencing it again as a mortal, nothing but flesh and blood and bone between him and the winter.

Until, of course, a lump of packed snow hits the side of his face.

He shakes it off like he might have done while still a beast, which only leaves him slightly dizzy and his hair coming undone from its tail. Some of the snow has slid down his neck, dampening his coat and the shirt underneath and it is absolutely _freezing_.

Laughter rises from somewhere behind him, melodic and beautiful, and that’s all it takes for him to know that it belongs to his Belle. He spins around to see her leaning against a stone balustrade, smiling down at him sweetly, feigning innocence.

“So _this_ is what gets you out of bed?” he asks.

“It was my plan all along, you silly man,” Belle says, all mischief. “And now that you’re not seven feet tall with preternatural strength, you won’t be able to nearly kill me.”

“You never came close,” he argues. “I wouldn’t have killed you.”

“I was bruised for _weeks_ ,” Belle shouts at him.

“Well, you should have thought about that before you threw snow at me, then.”

“And you _laughed_ at me,” she continues, scooping up the largest armful of snow that she can manage. “I could have been knocked unconscious!”

“But you weren’t, darling,” Adam assures. “And the face of regret you made was enough to melt that beastly heart of mine. That was the first time I’d laughed in years. It was well earned, you should be honored, my love.”

Belle makes a face at him, as if still remembering the bruises. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” Of course it wouldn’t—Belle had nothing but revenge on her mind. And who was he stop her?

Adam gathers up a handful of snow, packing it tightly, and advances on Belle, still waiting for him at the top of the stairs. By way of greeting, she launches the massive ball of snow that she’s constructed with both arms. It _just_ reaches its target, landing with a soft _thwack_ down the front of him. He retaliates by throwing the snow in his fist, and it collides with her face, earning a muffled yelp. Adam bends down, clumps of broken snow falling from his coat and the waistcoat underneath onto his boots. Caught in a prone position, he feels a forceful impact hit his ribs, and then his head shortly after, knocking his tricorn hat from its perch.

He pulls himself back up to his full height, grinning. “You’ll have to do a lot more than that to knock me over, my dear.”

Belle is suddenly determined, and it’s a look that makes Adam equal parts terrified and endeared. She pulls up the hood of her cloak and then she’s off, scooping up snow as she goes. When she tosses it behind her and takes off running, Adam dodges the incoming snow and trails after her. They chase each other across the fresh snow, hurling fistfuls of it at each other, laughter ringing through the quiet gardens. Belle’s surprised yelps rise into the frigid air every time one of Adam’s snowballs make contact. Her hood comes loose somewhere in the middle of the fight, chestnut waves flying, shining in the sun, swept against her cheeks. Her smile matches the radiance of the sunlight, the snow gleaming and rolling across the icy landscape.

They chase each other until they’re breathless and standing a distance apart from one another, their clothes wet and dripping with lumps of snow. Adam’s hair has somehow come loose in the fray, silk ribbon now lost to the winter, dark blond locks almost drenched and certainly unkempt. Belle stares at him in a way that he can’t quite read, both of their chests heaving, breath turning white when it hits the air.

She catches him off guard this time—flings her petite body forward, straight for his center. He looks horrified for a split second, right before she collides into him, knocking him backward into the largest snowbank imaginable. Adam drags her down with him, a grunt escaping his lips when he lands flat into the snow, Belle lying soundly on top of him. She lifts her head up to beam at him; it’s a smug look, one that she has completely earned. Her cheeks and nose are ruddy from the cold, her head haloed by the sun and an impossibly periwinkle sky.

“You were saying?” Belle asks.

Adam laughs, reaching out to brush a few strands of wet hair from Belle’s cheek. He says nothing, but Belle seems to read his very thoughts, leaning down again to meet his lips. In the midst of their kiss, he feels her shivering, her lips trembling as they’re locked with his.

He breaks from their kiss. “I think it would be wise if we returned to the castle before we catch cold.”

Belle nods, still shivering. “I won’t argue with that.”

“Really? That’s a first.”

The look that Belle shoots him is worth everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like exploring different characters and their relationships, so please let me know what you'd like to see with these prompts. If there's a pairing or friendship you'd like to see more of, you're more than welcome to tell me!


	8. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #8: "Hands" Belle and Beast feed birds in the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being SO behind! I'm going to start attempting to catch up. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> ANYWAY, this chapter is just one of the scenes in the animated Beauty and the Beast that I love so much, I wanted to write it out with the two of them. Hope you like it. :)

He finds Belle in the colonnade among the roses, under an overcast sky. Feather-light snowflakes drift around her, graceful as dancers, gathering in the waves of her hair. He doesn’t want to disturb the peace she’s found, still doesn’t quite know if his presence is always wanted. They have been more at ease with each other since she nursed his wounds and fever, since she has found a sanctuary in the castle library.

Still, he isn’t sure what to call it. He’s inclined to think, perhaps, that it could be friendship, but he cannot recall the feeling. There are moments where he believes, for a glimpse of time, that there is something else that hovers between them, unspoken. But those are foolish moments, thoughts that he doesn’t dare linger on.

If it is friendship, he decides, he is content with that because he must be. Friendship does not shatter curses, but it is strong enough to melt the ice around his heart, to stave off the loneliness that has been his sole companion for far too long. But it is only temporary, as most things are. There will come a day—and he feels it in his soul that it will be soon, for how long will he be able to keep her here, now?—when they must part ways. Belle has a kind heart, and she has done so much more for him than she ever should have, but _she_ is so much more than the life in this castle.

If he must be doomed to it for all eternity, Belle does not deserve the same fate. Perhaps he will show her the Enchantress’ book and send her home with it, back to her father…

Belle’s quiet laughter brings him out of his thoughts. He notices that she’s unearthed a burlap sack of birdseed from somewhere on the castle grounds; he knows not where, but it comes as no surprise to him that curious Belle has found it. It sits on one of the stone benches, tightly bound, while she has scooped a generous portion of it into one of the pockets she wears around the outside of her petticoats. She drops to one knee in the snow, laying out a handful of the feed in front of her, watching as the birds hop over to pick away at it.

She pulls herself to her feet the moment she sees him. “Would you like to try?”

“I don’t know if I—”

Before he can finish, she places her hands under his, cupping them together so she can sprinkle a generous portion into his large palms. He stands there holding it, looking both dumbstruck and confused. She shakes her head, though she’s wearing an amused smile, and gestures to the birds that have perched around the colonnade, braving the snow. Some swoop down, chirping, to grab some of the seeds that Belle has already scattered. He moves slowly, hesitantly, toward them, but upon his approach they flutter away, terrified. He tries again, attempting a somewhat amiable presence given his large form, but still, they squawk and take off for higher ground.

He shakes his head and holds out his palms to Belle, expecting her to take the seed back. “They’re afraid of me.”

Instead, Belle lowers onto one knee. “Sometimes first impressions are difficult.” She invites him to do the same, a hint of a smirk on her lips. He drops into a crouch, some of the bird seed spilling onto the snow.

Belle tosses some more into his awaiting palms, then throws a small handful in front of them, making a trail from where the birds have begun to pick away at the feed already. With a fleeting look in his direction, she places her hands on top of his, her palms brushing against his knuckles. Her fingers are lithe, her hands so petite compared to all of his claws and fur. Her hands are also cold; he can feel the icy metal of the ring on her smallest finger. He leans into her touch, the softness of her hands, hoping that the extra warmth will help her.

At least that’s what he tells himself, anyway. It’s been so long since another being of flesh and blood has touched him with such gentleness. Belle doesn’t flinch or recoil; she leaves her hands where they are, and looks up at him, he thinks, as if he might still be human.

It isn’t long before the birds scamper over, their bright blue and red and yellow plumage stark against the new fallen snow. They chirp, picking seeds straight from his palms. A few perch on his fingertips, and then his arms, and shoulders, and soon he’s suddenly become inundated with them. He crouches there, stiff, looking at Belle with wary, wide eyes, and Belle laughs, loudly, the sound ricocheting off the colonnade.

He’s never heard a lovelier sound.


	9. Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #9: "Smile" Chapeau takes care of young prince Adam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is heavy on angst, and there's mentions of abuse.

A door slammed down the hallway. From where he had hidden in an alcove, back pressed to a wall under the cover of shadows, Chapeau swore he could feel the very foundations of the castle shake. The Master’s footsteps were swift, loud against the marble floors. As he passed, Chapeau winced at the anger that seemed to permeate the air, trailing him like a storm, heavy and dark. His temper was notorious throughout the castle—Chapeau had learned that almost immediately; he was like a cask of gunpowder, easily set aflame, quick to explode. Dangerous, if provoked.

He waited until he knew the Master had returned to his drawing room, likely beneath a mountainous stack of paperwork and correspondence. Then, he slipped out of the alcove into the corridor, holding his breath as though the Master could hear his very footsteps from the opposite wing of the castle. Chapeau had not heard what had started the argument, nor did he know what sort of mishap had earned the Master’s ire. He’d heard the booming tones through the door, the walls, drowning out the boy’s unsteady, tearful replies.

Then the boy had stopped altogether. From every prior experience, Chapeau knew the Master had given up trying to use words and instead resorted to his fists. Chapeau knew better than to intervene. That had earned him nothing, except bruises and blood. It had made his pulse pound in his ears, his hands clench into fists so tightly that his knuckles blanched, to listen to the boy— _his_ boy—suffer so horrendously. But if he lost his job, then what would happen to the young prince? Chapeau couldn’t imagine leaving him to the mercy of his father, who had no such mercy to spare.

He took a breath and eased open the door to a sitting room. It was dimly lit, a couple of candles burning low on a table. There was a heaviness to the air that made Chapeau’s chest tighten, as if the darkness of the Master’s anger had not left the room and had instead taken root in every fiber, every particle of the space.

He hated the man for it, as he knew the lady of the house, now gone from their lives, had preferred this room. There were days once, when the sunlight filled the entire room; she liked to have the windows open, to bring in the fresh breeze. There would be piles of books on every surface, and Chapeau himself would make sure that there was a new bouquet of roses cut from the garden. The boy and his mother would spend a lot of their time here, if they weren’t holed up in the library or walking along the shore of the lake.

It was cruel of the Master to try and leech the good memories of this room from his son. But then again, the Master knew nothing but cruelty, so much, perhaps, that Chapeau thought he enjoyed it.

Chapeau heard the young prince before he saw him—sniffling, quiet sobs that were halfway muffled, the rustling of clothes followed by a pained groan. The boy, just shy of nine years, lay curled up on the floor, his face pressed into a rug, an arm clutching his stomach. Chapeau took a few tentative steps forward, not wanting to frighten him.

He lowered to one knee. “ _Mon prince_ ,” he said, barely above a whisper.

He reached out a hand, fingers hovering over the young prince’s back, unsure if the gesture of comfort would be welcome. He withdrew his hand, thinking better of it, and sighed. Even in the semi dark, he could see droplets of the boy’s blood had stained the carpet, the front of his shirt, the cuffs of his sleeves.

 _That bastard_ , Chapeau thought, cringing with a memory of the wounds he had suffered himself at the Master’s hand. He had chosen, perhaps foolishly, to open his mouth, raise his own temper against the Master’s in defense of the beloved lady of the house. He had been somewhat younger then, more daring, and the words—spurred on by all of the tears _Madame_ had shed on his shoulder, in confidence—had garnered him nothing but a beating and a threat against his job. Chapeau did not particularly regret the incident; _Madame_ had made sure he kept his place within the household, and in return, Chapeau was quite thankful the Master had taken out his rage on him and not his wife.

 _Madame_ had, shortly after, told Chapeau in secret that she was with child.

She did not break the news to her husband until nearly a month had passed.

Chapeau, who had some experience fighting in his youth with other children who used to bully him or spar against each other for sport, had sworn that if the Master dared to raise his hand to _Madame_ while in such a state of vulnerability, he _would_ fight back, his job be damned.

Where had that bravado gone?

His confidence, his _words_ , even, had faded over the years, and Chapeau berated himself for it. He’d sworn to protect the boy. Though it was a poor excuse, the loss of _Madame_ had hurt them all quite deeply. Things were not as they once were, and Chapeau feared the decline would worsen as time marched relentlessly forward.

Above all things, he did not want to lose his job and leave this boy behind. The more he repeated that, he supposed, the easier it would become to try and piece him together after the Master had shattered him.

Chapeau placed a cautious hand on the young prince’s back. “Adam,” he whispered. “It is all right now, _mon petit_. Come. We will get you cleaned up.”

Adam unburied his face from the rug and the messy tangles of his hair to look up at Chapeau. He still seemed dazed, his bright blue eyes glassy and red-rimmed from the tears he’d shed. Chapeau thought for a second that his chest had seized up and his pulse had stopped its harried rhythm from the heartbroken, utterly desperate and defeated look in Adam’s eyes.

The Master had made a mess of his young face; blood was already drying underneath his nose and across his lips, down to his chin. One of his cheeks had swelled, shining in the dim light, already marked with a dark purple bruise. The harder he looked, Chapeau saw that the Master’s ring had likely cut open his cheek. It would take a couple of weeks for the injuries to heal, he knew, but the Master would keep his son bound to the castle, and no one outside of it would become wise to the situation. Though Chapeau doubted any of them would concern themselves—how many other fathers of the nobility beat their sons into obedience? He cared not to know, because he only cared for just one.

Chapeau offered a gentle hand, fingers brushing the hair from Adam’s face. “It is all right, _mon prince_ ,” he repeated, as if it would help.

Adam pushed himself off the floor, groaning and wincing as he did so (and Chapeau winced along with him at the sight) and sat up. For a moment, he and Chapeau looked at each other as the boy tried to find his balance. Chapeau attempted to maintain his composure, for his own emotions threatened to well up, burning the back of his throat.

No, the boy needed strength, now. He could not break, too. 

Without any warning, Adam flung his arms around Chapeau’s neck and wilted, his face pressed into the safety of Chapeau’s coat. He blinked, staring down at the young prince, taken aback. He had not done this in a long time, not since his father had kept his son at a great distance from the household staff. Even though Chapeau catered to the Master and his son every day, the Master had made sure their interactions ended before they had a chance to begin.

Chapeau held him like that for long moments that stretched into a minutes, maybe ten at most. He cradled the back of Adam’s head in his palm, hugged him close, careful of whatever pain he felt where his father had likely taken his walking stick as an aid. It was no wonder that Adam was starved for affection, for sympathy; he’d received barely any in the wake of his mother’s passing.

He did not want to let go of the young prince, so he didn’t. He got to his feet, Adam’s arms still clinging to his neck, the boy balanced on one hip as gently as possible. Adam didn’t object, his chin finding a spot in the crook of Chapeau’s shoulder. Quietly, he slipped out of the room and went directly to the servants’ access corridors, where the Master would never bother to tread. He took them all the way down to the kitchen, which he found blissfully emptied of the staff, save for Monsieur Cuisinier. That was just as well; he did not want the boy to be overwhelmed.

When Monsieur Cuisinier saw the pair of them descend the stone staircase, he exchanged an empathetic look with Chapeau and lowered his eyes to the mixing bowl that occupied his attention. Chapeau cleared a spot on the tabletop, knocking over empty bowls and brushing aside silverware so that Adam could sit on the edge. He set the boy down gingerly, regretful that he had to do so at all. Adam stared, miserable, at the blood that had dried under his fingernails.

Chapeau swept unruly hair out of Adam’s face, offering a faint smile. “You are safe now, _mon petit_.” He patted Adam’s knee. “Cuisinier, get _le prince_ some dessert, yes?”

Cuisinier nodded. “ _Oui_ , right away, _mon ami_.”

Shedding his coat, Chapeau rolled up his sleeves and grabbed one of the bowls he’d overturned. He filled it under the tap that ran warm water over the soiled dishes, then grabbed a clean cloth from one of the drawers. He set the bowl next to Adam, soaking the cloth in the warm water and ringing out the excess.

“I will be very careful,” he promised.

Adam nodded. His eyes were still distant, occupying a space Chapeau couldn’t reach. He hoped, perhaps, that whatever Monsieur Cuisinier brought would earn a smile. Adam had not smiled since they lost _Madame_. It was wrong for a boy his age to go so long without feeling joy. He knew that a childhood among royalty had to be immeasurably different from the one he had spent in the village, but even boys with a noble inheritance deserved to be happy.

Keeping his touch gentle, fleeting, Chapeau dabbed at the blood that coated Adam’s nose and mouth. It was a miracle that the Master did not break Adam’s nose, but then again, he wouldn’t, just like he would never beat the boy so severely as to kill him. The young prince was his sole heir, and with his mother gone, there was no one else but him to carry on his reign.

Chapeau took Adam’s hands in his own, one at a time, cleaning the dried blood from his skin, clearing it from under his fingernails. Adam watched, quiet, sniffling every so often. When at last the young prince looked somewhat presentable, save for the cuts on his lower lip and across his cheek, and the bruises that marred them, Cuisinier came over with dessert.

Cuisinier presented Adam with a porcelain bowl and a spoon, and a generous portion of chocolate mousse. The dessert happened to be one of Cuisinier’s best and favored by the young prince, who always ended up with more of it than anyone else.

“ _Merci_ ,” Chapeau told him, grinning. “A good choice.”

“There is plenty more, _mon prince_ , do not be shy,” Cuisinier told the boy. “And do not worry over spoiling your dinner tonight. _Oui_?”

Adam took the bowl and spoon. He hesitated just for a moment, then shoveled a heaping spoonful into his mouth, which earned him a hearty laugh from Cuisinier. Chapeau crossed his arms in front of him, grinning.

After the bowl had been halfway emptied, Adam finally glanced up at Chapeau, wearing the barest of smiles. And that was enough, for Adam’s smile was his mother’s, and in him she lived on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapeau, my love! <3 I don't know how I end up always writing a million words when it comes to him, but here we are. I may as well write an entire multichapter fic about him at this point. This one sort of built off some headcanons I wrote in my other Chapeau fic, "All Those Precious Days." 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading!


	10. Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #10: "Sand" Plumette and Lumiere go skinny dipping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about changing the rating for this, but there's nothing explicit in it, so I think the current rating should be fine. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Plumette lies in bed listening to the waves crash against the shore, her body still feeling as though it is still caught in the ebb and flow of the tide. A warm breeze carries the scent of brine and sand into their room and rustles the bed linens, stirs the loose curls of hair in front of her eyes. She breathes in deeply, stretching an arm up above her head and staring at the shadows thrown across the ceiling. The air is humid, pressing heavily on top of her, more unbearable than the heat of the sun at its peak. She can feel the beads of sweat roll down the small of her back, her shift clinging to her skin. After spending so much time in the midst of winter, Plumette cannot yet tolerate the balmy night air.

She and Lumière had spent the afternoon on a vacant stretch of beach on the coast of Marseille, courtesy of _le prince_ , who had personally seen to it that they had comfortable accommodations. In an effort to make up for the years lost to them, he had not given Plumette and Lumiére a date on which to report back to the castle to resume their duties.

At first, Plumette had wondered just how long they could stay away, but now, after nearly a month in their beautiful seaside cottage, she’d found herself thinking, _What if we never go back?_  It is a fanciful thought, of course, because she knows, at some point (possibly very soon) that they will get bored of this.  

It has been wonderful being useless; long, lazy mornings spent in bed, curled into each other’s arms, watching the light shift across the walls. Afternoons basking in the hot sun, toes buried in the sand, floating in the gorgeous turquoise water that fades into sapphire on the horizon. Their nights have been an adventure. Bed linens tangled, bodies entwined, under the glow of half-melted candles until the morning’s light breaks over the waves. Gazing up at the patchwork of constellations, not knowing where the sky and sea begin and end, falling asleep on top of the soft sand. Kisses that leave Plumette breathless, always wanting more, making up for lost time. Lumière’s touches that rival the heat from the sun that radiates off their skin after a day on the beach.

She should be exhausted, tired of adventures, wanting sleep. But the waves are still colliding with the shore, creating a rhythm all their own, and Plumette is still restless. She groans and kicks off the sheets, but Lumière doesn’t move.

“Lumière.”

“Hmm.”

“Lumière, are you awake?”

“I am now,” he says, and turns over so that he’s facing her. He props his head up on an elbow, one eyebrow quirked as she slides out of bed. “What is it, _ma chérie? What is wrong?”_

"Nothing,” Plumette says. “It is _stifling_ in here. And I have discovered that I am quite bored with sleep.”

“Bored?” he asks, and suppresses a yawn. Lumière flops back into his pillow face-first, dragging his arms underneath it. “I am content. _Perfectly_ content. So content that I do not even want to _think_ about moving—”

“Come down to the beach with me,” Plumette says, her eyes alight. She is suddenly feeling eager, beaming with mischief, as if a spark has ignited.

Lumière angles his face just so, opening one eye to see Plumette climbing across the bed toward him. He clings to his pillow as if it is an anchor. Plumette leans down, attacking his face with kisses, her fingers poking at his shoulders, his bare chest.

“Come _on_ , Lumière. We have all the time in the world to sleep, no? Please, _mon amour_. You know how beautiful the beach is at night.”

He cannot say no to her, he knows this.

In the end, Lumière lets her drag him out of bed wearing nothing but a pair of breeches and she guides him through the haze of sleep to the shore that lies mere feet from their cottage. She laughs at him the whole way, their bare feet making trails in the windblown sand. Plumette gasps once they reach the edge of the water, fingers entwined with Lumière’s, staring up at where the sky and sea meet. The stars are plentiful, glittering and winking back at them, swirls of white from the heavens creating a gorgeous pattern against the pitch black. The waves crest at a gentle pace, turning silver as the moonlight greets them, rippling across the surface. Plumette watches the tide, the stars for long minutes, unaware that Lumière is not taken by the stars, but by _her_.

When she finally looks at him, he recognizes the fire in her eyes. “Remember when we used to sneak out of the castle at night? And go to the lake?”

“ _Oui_ , how could I forget?” Lumiere asks, smirking. “Ah, we were so young, so daring… A pair of adolescent troublemakers, you and I.”

Plumette shares his smirk. “Oh, I am doubtful that our troublemaking streak has left us, _mon coeur_.”

Without another word, Plumette removes her shift, tugging it up over her head, letting it drop onto the sand between them. There is no need for modesty, not at this hour, and certainly not in front of the man she’s going to spend the rest of her life with. Plumette rises onto the tips of her toes, like a dancer, and kisses the end of Lumière’s nose. Then she’s off, heading toward the water, her skin painted with moonlight.

Lumière doesn’t have second to breathe. Plumette pauses at the water’s edge and turns to look at him, her hair captured by the breeze that’s carried to shore by the waves.

“I certainly hope you have not lost _your_ troublemaking streak, _monsieur_.”

She is already wading into the surf by the time Lumiere has tossed his breeches onto the sand, after nearly falling on his face in the attempt to get out of them. Plumette giggles and watches him kicking up sand as he goes, now waist-deep in the water. It is warm, but at least it is much cooler than the air that’s trapped in their cottage. The night around them is calm, so every splash, every peal of laughter rises, exaggerated by the quiet dark.

When Lumière reaches her, he catches her around the waist, pulling her so their chests meet in the water that has risen there. She laughs and throws her arms around his neck, their noses pressed against each other.

“Ah, so you _are_ still the same rebellious young man I fell in love with,” Plumette teases. “That is good to know.”

Lumière ducks out of her grasp and sinks under the water. He makes a grab at Plumette’s leg, like he used to when they would swim into the deeper waters of the lake, but she shouts at him, jumping backward out of his reach. He resurfaces a few steps away, shoving water out of his eyes, droplets falling from his close-cropped hair and moustache. Plumette wades over to him, transfixed by the way the moonlight hits the water that streaks down his chest and shoulders, as if he has never lost his glow.

Plumette saunters over and tugs him to her this time, fingers tracing down his arms and chest where the moonlight has touched him. She leaves kisses across the muscled planes of his torso, working her way up to his neck, delicately, satisfied when he leans into her, hands settled at the small of her back. His pulse thrums under her lips and tongue; she stops there, for just a second longer, never tired of how his heart beats. Lumière presses her closer as their lips finally meet, and Plumette moves against him, fingers tangled into his short hair. Plumette’s toes curl into the wet sand under them and she smiles against his lips once she hears a quiet moan pierce the air.

Lumière’s curious hands begin to wander, and Plumette meets him, eagerly, until he catches her off guard, hooking an arm under the backs of her legs. In one swift motion, she’s in his arms, dangling over the water, and he’s suddenly the epitome of smugness. Plumette swats at his chest, shrieking as he threatens to toss her into the surf.

“ _Lumière!_ ” she hollers, though her words don’t carry any anger, just playful annoyance. “You tease!”

“You are the one who wanted to go to the beach, _mon amour_.”

Plumette squeals as he fakes dropping her. “ _Oui_ , but I had other things in mind…”

“Which you should have thought about before you dragged me out of bed, where I was perfectly—”

Plumette kisses him, locking her arms around his neck so that he’s forced to surrender. When they part, she is breathless. “Content. I know. And how about now? Are you content, _monsieur_?”

“Oh, very much.”


	11. Rejection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #11: "Rejection" Adam has a very important question to ask Maurice.

Adam left the carriage and its driver at the edge of the forest, taking the narrow, less-traveled roads rather than cutting through the village square. It was impossible to remain inconspicuous, but he did all that he could. An unassuming pair of breeches and a waistcoat, his tricorn hat angled just so, casting a shadow across his face. He kept his eyes down and watched the cobblestones pass under his shoes while he attempted to gather his courage.

Anxiety welled in the pit of his stomach, his palms slick with perspiration. He could feel it collecting under the edge of his hat and beading down his temples. Adam took a few deep breaths, trying in vain to exude calm. _It’s_ Maurice, he told himself, _you’re not requesting an audience with the King._

Still, the prospect filled him with more distress that the thought of asking Belle to be his wife.

Maurice was a kind soul, like Belle, and he was fiercely protective of his daughter, as he had every right to be. Every doubt in the universe weighed on Adam’s shoulders. Given their tumultuous past, why would Maurice ever grant him this wish? The love that he and Belle shared for each other was enough to break a curse, but was it enough for Maurice to let his daughter be wed to the man who’d once imprisoned them both?

The front gate of the cottage groaned on its hinges as Adam entered the lush front garden overgrown with flowers and fresh vegetables. Belle’s home was modest, but Adam loved it all the same. He’d spent a couple of days with her here, sleeping on a lumpy sofa (and creeping upstairs to her room in the middle of the night) and enjoying the leisurely pace of her and Maurice’s life while she got her affairs in order. She’d since moved into the castle, but Maurice was not yet ready to follow her.

Adam often wondered what his life would’ve looked like, had he grown up like this. A cramped but comfortable home, a simple upbringing with so much love bursting at the seams. It had been so long ago, but perhaps this was the life he often imagined for himself and his mother, both of them disappearing in the night to a quaint home in the country.

He climbed up the steps, inhaling and exhaling deeply in an effort to slow his pulse. In the moments that it took Maurice to respond to his knock on the door, Adam’s mind conjured up approximations of where their conversation might lead. He did not want to contemplate the darker path, the one where he faced an entire future without Belle at his side, but the possibility nagged at him.

Maurice tugged open the door and Adam tried his best to find some confidence from somewhere, but he just ended up with a rather forced smile. Maurice regarded him over the rims of his glasses, then pulled Adam into a hug.

“Adam,” Maurice said, ushering him inside, “good to see you! What brings you into the village? Is Belle with you?” He peered past Adam’s shoulder as Adam struggled to remove his hat, flustered, a rosy blush working its way up his neck.

“Uh, no,” Adam answered. “I had to slip out of the castle without her noticing, actually.”

“And you succeeded?” Maurice laughed, closing the door. His shirt was splattered with paint—the lower floor of the house smelled strongly of it.

“I waited until she disappeared into the library.”

“Ah, that will…that will certainly do it, then. Once she picks up a book, she’s lost to the outside world. I used to carry on entire conversations talking to myself, you know. She’d be sitting just there where you are now, while I worked on one thing or another. Nose pressed to the pages, oblivious to anything I’d said.”

Adam laughed. “That sounds about right.”

“I hope you, don’t,” he paused, scooping up a rag from the tabletop, “well, mind the mess. Things have fallen to the wayside, I’m afraid, since Belle left. And I’ve suddenly found myself commissioned to paint new murals for the tavern. Not a lot of time to worry about cleaning and such things.”

“It’s quite all right, Maurice,” Adam assured. He shifted on his feet, playing with the hat in his hands. He could hear the beat of his heart in his ears, and he knew his face was flushed. “I came here to speak with you…to ask you something, really.”

Maurice settled into a chair. “Ah,” he grinned. “You know, I’d thought you would have come to me with this question sooner.”

Adam held in a breath, narrowing his eyes, his mouth half open. “You… _what_ …?”

“Of course I _knew_ ,” he replied. Maurice’s brow pulled together. “Did you come here thinking I would turn you away?”

“It seemed too much to assume you would allow Belle to marry me after everything I’ve done to you both.”

Maurice stood, closing the distance between himself and Adam. “And that is all in the past,” he said, and laid a hand on Adam’s arm. “You were—quite literally, in fact—a different creature then. Adam,” Maurice addressed softly, “listen to me. I have seen the worst of men chase Belle like a prize to be won. She never fell for it, and neither did I. Gaston coveted her beauty and nothing else, wanted to force her into a life that she could never be happy with. But _you_ , you have seen her heart and her soul and her strength and everything else that makes Belle…well, _Belle_.”

Maurice smiled at Adam, tears welling in his eyes. “You’ve given her everything she could’ve ever hoped for, and more. And with the way you look at her, dear boy, I know in your heart that you love her more than anything else in this world. She is _so_ lucky to have found you, and you her. I know what happens when you meet your soul’s mate, Adam. It is a wondrous thing.”

Adam tried to find words, but he couldn’t. He nodded, awestruck but not altogether surprised that this man had raised the woman he loved.

Maurice took one of Adam’s hands between his own. “I couldn’t fathom giving my blessing to anyone but you.”

Adam’s voice trembled. “Thank you, Maurice. I can’t thank you enough. Having your blessing is…it’s everything.”

“Not every day that one’s love shatters curses, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Maurice released Adam’s hand, gaze drifting to the middle distance, somewhere beyond Adam’s head. “You know, that gives me an idea. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before…” He threw a glance back at the table, laden with paints and sketches. “The tavern could use a grand love story, to start anew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, not my best work, but this prompt gave me some trouble. I hope it wasn't too terrible! 
> 
> Thanks for all of your comments and kudos thus far!


	12. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #12: "Dreams" Belle and Adam worry about parenthood.

Belle wakes in the night when the bed linens grow cold, when Adam’s arms no longer cradle her and the empty space in their bed stretches on like a vast ocean. The room is dark, the fire that had burned before they fell asleep reduced to embers. Belle blinks the weariness from her eyes and as they adjust to the darkness, she finds Adam’s silhouette at the end of their bed. She can barely discern the outline of his back and shoulders, but she knows him well enough by now to realize that the distance he has put between himself and her isn’t because of anything she’s done.

She pushes off the quilts and linens, covering the space between them as best she can, though she knows it probably looks ridiculous. She waddles over on her knees, then sits back on them just behind Adam, draping her arms over his shoulders. Belle drops a kiss into his hair and he relaxes into her touch like it’s instinctual, which, by now she believes it very well could be. Adam tilts his head back so that he’s staring up at her, and it’s all Belle needs to know that he’d been crying. She cards her fingers through his hair, provoking a long sigh of what she thinks might be relief from his lips.

Belle leans down to kiss him, her swollen belly brushing against his back. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispers. “Just know that I’m here.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Adam tells her. He reaches up, takes a lock of her hair between his fingers. “I…didn’t want to hurt you, or the baby.”

A crease grows between her eyebrows. “How could you?”

Adam sighs; it’s different from the one where he melted into her touch. It’s hollower, and perhaps, Belle thinks, ashamed.

“You know how violent my nightmares can become, Belle,” he answers, words laced with regret that almost feels tangible in the space they share. “I couldn’t live with myself if I’d harmed you or our child, however unintentional it might be.”

“I know.” Belle takes his hand where he’d been playing with her hair and presses a kiss into his palm. He carries _so much pain_ —they both do; different shades of it, twisting at their insides at the most inopportune moments, clawing its way back once they’ve finally believed they’d fought it off. “You would never hurt either of us, I _know_ that. And so do you.”

Adam pulls his legs up from the side of the bed, turning around to face her, one leg tucked under him, the other drawn to his chest. Belle moves off her knees and sits cross-legged in front of Adam, hands settled on her growing belly. She sees him hesitate before he lays a hand on top of hers, his thumb sweeping across her knuckles.

“In some dreams, we have a son,” Adam admits, quietly. “Others, we have a daughter. It starts off well enough—me, holding our child, singing to them, cradling them…imagining them with your nose, or a dusting of freckles across their cheeks.” Belle grins. “And then the dream changes and I’m powerless to stop it. I look in the mirror and…sometimes I see my father’s face glaring back at me when it should be my own, or…I’m a monster again—horns, fangs…”

Adam’s voice breaks. “I…I lose you, the baby… _everything_. It’s always the same.”

“It’s a _dream_ , my love,” Belle says, and wipes away an errant tear that has slipped down his cheek. “And you are neither your father nor a beast.”

“I don’t know how to be someone’s father,” Adam says, resting his chin on his knee.

“And I don’t know the first thing about being a mother,” Belle replies. “That terrifies me more than anything. Papa once felt the same, after losing Maman. He didn’t know if he could raise me without her.” Adam looks up, surprised. “But I have _you_ , and Papa, and Mrs. Potts…we’ll be all right, Adam. This child is _so loved_ already, and they’ll never know anything but that from both of us.”

Adam reaches over to caress her cheek, leaving a kiss on her forehead. “Remind me to thank Maurice.”

Belle levels him with a crooked smile. “Do you really think the baby will have my nose?”

“I hope so,” Adam laughs. His forefinger traces across the bridge of her nose. “And your eyes.”

Belle shakes her head. “No,” she says. “The baby’s going to have _your_ eyes.”

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“I saw it in a dream.”

“Oh? And what happened to there being no truth in them?” Adam challenged, kissing her, one hand resting on the swell of her stomach.

“Only the good ones.”


	13. Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #13: "Dessert" Lumiere has a surprise for Plumette.

The rich, earthy notes of Lumière’s perfume filled her senses. Warmth from the palm of his hand seeped through the fabric of her gown, fingertips pressed to the small of her back. _Oh, how she had missed his touch._ Even with the curse having broken months ago, she couldn’t get enough of his hands on her. The other rested at her shoulder to steer her forward, their careful steps clicking against the marble floors.

But Plumette couldn’t see a thing. Light flickered across her closed eyelids as they wove through the castle’s maze of hallways, passing by windows and moving through shadowed corners. Lumière had stolen her away from her work, plucking the feather duster from her hands (and almost sneezing when a cloud of dust exploded in his face). He had instructed her to close her eyes and to keep them closed until he told her to open them. Every so often, she would feel a cool gust of air hit her face as Lumière waved his hand in front of her eyes to be absolutely certain that she could not see anything.

She knew this castle well, knew every secret pathway and false door, had traveled its winding corridors for most of her life. And yet, navigating it in the dark seemed strange and unfamiliar; she tried to listen to the sounds their heels made across the floors and lifted her head every time the daylight streaming through a window found them. Plumette had no idea where they were, and she had a growing suspicion that for the better part of twenty minutes—at the very least—they had been going in circles.

“Lumière,” she said, at last. “Where are we going?”

“If I told you, _mon amour_ ,” he answered, the words so close that she could feel them against her ear, “it would not be a surprise.”

Surprises were one of Lumière’s favorite tricks, and over the years, Plumette had been the recipient of many of them. Flowers from the gardens left on her vanity table before she’d woken up. Love letters slipped under her door, or hidden in the secret places only she knew, where her feather duster would stumble across them. Stealing her away from the castle in the late hours of the night to swim in the lake. A spontaneous trip to the countryside. And his other favorite: elaborate song and dance performances to brighten her gloomy moods, as if he knew she was having a terrible day before _she_ did.

What _else_ could he have possibly planned?

He eased her down a staircase, gripping both of her hands while he stood in front of her, stepping down one stair at a time. Lumière kept one of her hands, their fingers laced together, after they’d reached level ground again.

“Almost there,” he promised.

Soon the air seemed to change; it felt warmer, richer, somehow, and their footsteps were echoing quite loudly, as if they had entered a larger space. Plumette inhaled, letting her shoulders relax as a hundred different aromas overwhelmed her senses.

The light behind her eyelids looked golden, wavering, shimmering…candles? Perhaps, as she thought she detected the faint scent of beeswax. As for the air, it smelled of springtime, of wildflowers that dotted the countryside and the castle gardens just before a rain storm. And there was something _else_ , too…something almost _magical_. But the room was so suffused with the aroma of flowers that Plumette couldn’t quite seek it out.

Lumière stood behind her again, both hands grasping each of her shoulders. “All right, _mon amour_ , you may open your eyes now.”

A chorus of voices shouted, “Happy Birthday!” just as Plumette’s eyes finally opened, revealing the castle’s staff, Mademoiselle Belle, and _le prince_ crowded together in the ballroom. _Ah, the ballroom_ —she should have known!

Plumette had not even realized it was her birthday, for they had reached a point years into the curse that celebrating them had become just a memory. It had been so long…but _Lumière_ , of course he had not forgotten. And with each birthday that fell after the curse had been broken, each one had been celebrated with all of the splendor they deserved.

“Oh, Lumière!” she gushed, whirling around to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. “It is _beautiful_.”

And it was. Hundreds of candles were lit around the floor along the outside walls, filling the ballroom with an ethereal light. Flowers on top of flowers, more than Plumette had seen in her entire life, had turned the formal room into an intimate space of vivid color and lush greens. It was as if a garden had sprung up from the marble; Plumette had seen enough magic to know that anything was possible.

A large, round table in the middle of the floor had been laden with every dessert imaginable. Plumette did not favor any particular dessert, she loved _all_ of them. Lumière had known that her appetite for sweets rivaled the love she held for him. The scent she couldn’t quite figure out before had been sugar—soft, whipped confections and vanilla and almonds and chocolate and every type of saccharine delight she could ever wish for.

Her fingers still entwined with his, Plumette approached the table to admire the desserts up close. Her eyes widened as she took in the decadent spread: fresh strawberries and oranges sprinkled in chocolate piled on large plates, small, porcelain pots with fluffy, light mousse, floral china cups of _crème brûlée_ , biscuits and cream cheeses, and several different pies, tarts, and puddings garnished with chocolate and fruit and almonds and even more flowers. At the table’s center was a towering cake of at least five layers, elaborately decorated in sugary paste dyed a light purple. A few ostrich feathers had been pressed into the top, which made Plumette giggle.

There was _so much_ of everything…where could she possibly begin? She could hardly believe this had all been arranged for _her_.

“Happy Birthday, _mon coeur,”_ Lumière whispered.

He was certainly still the master of surprises.


	14. Blanket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #14: "Blanket" Beast looks after Belle.

He can finally move about the castle on his own, though he’s still plagued with a limp and his wounds hurt more than he is willing to let on. But he is healing, albeit slowly, and that is a comfort. His body had raged with fever for days, he’s been told. He doesn’t remember all of it, and for the fleeting moments that he retained consciousness, he’d been almost certain that he would die.

There are other moments that broke through the haze of his fever, but still he does not know whether he’d dreamed them. They had felt too wonderful, promising, to be anything but fantasy. Warm, golden sunlight spilling through the windows of the West Wing, making Belle’s hair shine like gold. Surely, that had been a trick of the candlelight, a cruel apparition conjured out of the fever’s dizzying hold. And Belle’s hand upon his brow like a cool, spring rain—doubtless some improbable hope borne out of his own despair, for how could she ever… How could she ever care enough for him? No, it couldn’t be right. The mind did strange things when ravaged by fever.

And yet. Belle had stayed, for him. She could have left him to succumb to his wounds, to freeze out there in the driving snow. She could have fled back to her village, her father. But instead those brown eyes had looked at him with compassion, her cloak had felt warm against his snow-damp fur. Was it so impossible now, to believe that Belle had sat on the edge of his bed trying to quell the heat coursing through his body, her touch gentle, the coolness of her skin like a balm?

It’s been so long since he’d been cared for by human hands, he’s forgotten what it felt like. For a touch to be soft, not stinging against his flesh, leaving behind marks that blossomed purple and faded before the words that had preceded them ever could.

It’s been too long since anyone has given a damn about him. Likely because he hadn’t deserved it.

He isn’t so sure that he is very deserving of Belle’s compassion, now. All he’d done was yell at her for trying to help him. To her credit, she had scolded him right back. Although he’d been blinded by his own pain, unable to appreciate it in that moment, in the present he has to admit her stubborn resolve was quite admirable.

Pain spikes up his leg at the slightest pressure; he stifles a growl, keeping his gait uneven, not willing to push himself too far. His whole body is sore, the gashes across his arm and shoulder where the wolves tore him open feel raw, throbbing under the bandages Belle fashioned. He expects her to find him soon, her brow pulling together, eyes hard and determined as she reprimands him for getting out of bed before he’s fully healed.

It amazes him that a person so petite could be so…formidable.

He is surprised to find _her_ , instead. He’s not quite sure how, but he stumbles upon her as if he’s meant to, like a moth drawn to a flame. The little drawing room has a pathetic excuse for a fire burning in its hearth, not giving off nearly enough light or heat. This particular room has always been drafty; the winter that’s settled in around them has weakened the windows’ last defenses against the bitter air.

Belle is sprawled out on a chaise situated in front of the hearth, a pillow tucked under her head. One of her arms is folded beneath the pillow, the other resting across her stomach. The dying light of the fire has painted her hair in shades of buttery yellow and dark orange, her skin aglow, and it’s as if he’s looking through the cloud of fever yet again. Her lips are parted slightly, and he finds himself transfixed by the subtle movement of her breath, the delicate line of her eyelashes against her cheeks.

It’s then, when she stirs in her sleep, that he realizes she’s shivering. She moves as if she wants to burrow into her petticoats, but she doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t rouse herself from the depths of sleep. Winter has crawled its way in there with her.

He doesn’t want to wake her, though he knows if she continues on like this, she could very well catch her death. Before his mind can fully process his own thoughts, he is maneuvering out of the fine wool and silk banyan he tugged on as he left the West Wing. It takes some careful movement. Pain stabs at him anew and he grits his teeth against it, limping around the corner of the chaise. The banyan, sewn to accommodate his beastly form, will suit her as well as any quilt, he thinks. He drapes it over her prone body, watches as the garment covers her, snugly, from chin to foot and then some.

Belle sighs in her sleep. It’s barely perceptible, but he knows this time that he hasn’t dreamt it. She curls into the banyan, arms moving to pull it up around her chin, her nose disappearing into the fabric as if she’s breathing it in. A heartbeat passes and he finds he wants to reach out and sweep his fingers along her cheek.

It is a foolish dream, and he banishes it before it has a chance to take root.

Belle has made him feel so human in the past several days that he’s forgotten… He nearly hates himself for the intrusion of that ridiculous thought.

He lets out a breath, turns his back on Belle’s slumbering form, because it is easier. “Sleep well.”


	15. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #15: "Tears" Chapeau struggles as Adam grows up under his father's influence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this can probably be read as a follow up to my previous prompt "Smile" about Chapeau and Adam. My friend tinydooms asked me to explore what it would be like when Adam no longer goes to Chapeau for help after his father abuses him. And, as usual, it turned into a wordy Chapeau saga, because apparently I can't help myself. 
> 
> Also, I'm really sorry please don't hate me for the angst.

It’s after hours, when the quiet settles in for the night and the staff are allowed precious little free time before retiring to bed. Chapeau’s days are long, his feet and legs stiff and sore by the time dusk paints the horizon in brilliant color. Rarely an evening passes where he doesn’t collapse face-first onto his bed, giving into sleep until the early hours before sunrise. If he is lucky enough not to be completely exhausted, he writes to his mother and sisters in the village, the thin, slanting letters of his cursive flowing untamed by the time he is able to complete his signature.

There is correspondence lying on the chest at the foot of his bed, waiting for his response. He gives them a mere glance as he divests of his coat and wrenches the pins from his wig for the evening. His mother’s penmanship is all flourishes and neat, curved lines; his triplet sisters’ letters are erratic, short, and full of mistakes. They were still learning, at his mother’s insistence. He doesn’t know how exactly she summons the patience to wrangle his sisters long enough to teach them, but he supposes that mothers must have a fathomless well of it.

Simply receiving a quick note from them was enough to brighten Chapeau’s spirits. He hadn’t seen them for years now; the Master did not grant him the time to go off to the village.

Chapeau splashes water from the basin sitting on his dressing table onto his face, wipes the layer of powder and makeup from his skin with a dry cloth. It is always strange to stare at his own reflection in the mottled looking glass at the end of the day, droplets of water tricking down his nose and chin, clinging to his close-cropped hair like morning dew.

He looks like a different person entirely, and he’s unsure whether his present reflection or the wig perched on its stand, the powder now clouding the water, is him.

He considers the last letter, which had come to him scented with lavender and sealed in silver wax. Chapeau dries his hands before removing it from the pile. Her letters are always the same, so carefully adorned and dripping with the aroma of wildflowers. They don’t arrive often, but he always makes sure to reply when they do, in the hopes that the next one will reach him sooner.

He pulls apart the wax seal, breathes in the lavender. _My dearest Emile…_

Chapeau hardly registers the first line of her graceful quill strokes before the Master’s voice encroaches on the walls of his bedchamber. The parchment drops from his fingers, and he’s standing at the passageway to the service corridors in the next instant. Chapeau knows by now that whenever the Master’s voice carries this far, terrible things follow. He ducks into the passageway, side-stepping cobwebs and crumbling stone, and enters the secret parallel halls where the staff move about unseen.

The Master—raging, howling, furious—as his unwitting guide, Chapeau’s feet are quick, though he knows that interfering is never a possibility. Still, he wants to be near, in case the young prince should need him. They’ve not spoken to each other informally in months; the boy can scarcely glance in his direction whenever they share the same room. It’s as if Chapeau has become nothing but a decoration. He allows himself to fade into the background if only to protect the boy. Silently.

And that current position gives him a front row seat to the young prince’s undoing, his abysmal descent into his father’s dreadful world.

Chapeau can barely stand by and watch.

He emerges in the West Wing, and by the time he does, he catches the Master’s retreating back turning the corner, out of reach. Just as well. Chapeau does not trust himself in this moment to restrain his own temper.

One of the doors to the young prince’s bedchamber is open, a torch still flickering wildly beside it from the Master’s violent exit. Chapeau sees Adam just beyond the door and is, at least, relieved that the boy—though he is hardly a boy now, not at fourteen years—is standing on his own two feet. He is crumpled, slightly, fingers pulling at the muscles of his left side, deep creases between his brows.

The Master has strayed from harming Adam’s face as of late, but it seems now he’s forgotten himself in the midst of his rage. A ribbon of bright red seeps from the corner of Adam’s lips, another slides down the curve of his chin. The collar of his shirt is torn from, perhaps, the Master’s oppressive grip, if Chapeau dares to guess. The fine linen has ripped open across his shoulder as well, and even in the distance between them, Chapeau sees the skin beneath has already darkened.

They stare at each other across the length of space, Adam’s breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. Chapeau knows he’s fighting against the anxiousness that seizes his chest. His mother used to soothe him through those horrid attacks, and after, it had been his or Lumière’s or Mrs. Potts’ responsibility. Until the Master struck him and threw words like _weak_ and _pathetic_ in the boy’s face. Now he held it all in, bottled it up.

Tear marks stained Adam’s cheeks. Chapeau took a cautious step forward. “ _Mon prince_ —”

A look flashes in the young prince’s eyes, and before Chapeau can begin to comprehend it, Adam moves forward swiftly. Chapeau is not more than a step away from the threshold when the door slams shut with enough force that it feels as though the boy has delivered a quick punch to the stomach. (And Chapeau knows exactly what those feel like.) The air seems to leave his lungs. He stands there in the heavy silence, the thick door looming over him, barring his entrance. Chapeau reaches out, lays a hand on the cool wood, trying desperately not to think about how much Adam looked like his father moments before, allowing his fury to blaze forth and burn everything good in his life. Chapeau rests his forehead against the door, waiting, listening. Hoping the boy will reconsider. Hoping that this is not where everything ends.

The door doesn’t open.

 ***

He makes it back to his bedchamber in a haze. He has to brace his hands against the gritty stone walls of the passageway, pressing through cobwebs, dirt staining his fingers and sleeves, but he makes it. The room shifts, tilts, in and out of focus; Chapeau’s stomach roils along with it. His legs give way, and he ends up on the floor somewhere, his back against the side of the bed.

He could have done more. He _should_ have done so much more.

 _Madame_ always dreamed of a life in the country. If only he could have stolen them away…

But it was not to be. The young prince had an inheritance, and that was not be interfered with. Chapeau had hoped that the boy would not rule with a merciless hand like his father, and uphold the kindness his mother had once brought to the darkest corners of the castle. Surely that gentle soul was still somewhere within him, not wholly lost?

Perhaps that was not to be, either.

Chapeau rakes his trembling fingers through his mousy brown hair, buries his face into his palms so the room will stop its ceaseless tailspin. He tries to breathe— _inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale_ —but soon his shoulders are shaking and the deep, unsteady breaths become sobs that he can no longer keep inside.

So, he doesn’t.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but he weeps until his chest aches and the back of his throat prickles like rose thorns. His eyes feel swollen; he knows his face must be splotchy and red. His skin is tight from where the tears have dried, the cuffs of his sleeves damp from wiping at his cheeks.

Chapeau is still sniffling and keening when he hears a knock at the door.

“Chapeau?” Lumière asks, muffled through the barrier. “May I come in, _mon ami_?”

He doesn’t answer, but he hears Lumière shuffling his feet outside the door.

“I will understand if you want to be alone,” Lumière continues. “But perhaps maybe you should not be.”

A long moment passes. “Emile?” Lumière tries again.

“All right,” Chapeau concedes, quietly.

The door groans on its hinges and Lumière appears, shutting it quickly behind him. He looks as though he was getting ready to retire for the night, which makes Chapeau somewhat guilty for disturbing him. Lumière’s wig is gone, and he’s dressed in nothing but his shirt and breeches, his sleeves rolled up. A bottle of something is clutched in one fist, while the fingers of his other hand juggle two glasses. He settles on the floor beside Chapeau, one knee drawn to his chest, and shoves a glass into Chapeau’s hand.

“I had a suspicion you might’ve been in need of a drink, _mon ami_ ,” he says, and pops the bottle open. It’s then that Chapeau realizes it’s some sort of expensive brandy. “I was saving it for a special occasion between me and Plumette, but ah…my Plumette, she insisted that you needed it more.”

Chapeau watches the brandy slosh into their glasses. Lumière sets down the bottle between them and clinks his glass against Chapeau’s before taking a sip.

“We have a difficult job, you and I,” Lumière says, catching Chapeau’s eye over the rim of his glass. “All of us, really, but you and I…so close to the prince and the Master…” He sighs. “It is an unfortunate place to be in.”

Chapeau downs half his glass. It burns the entire way, but it quells the ache. His gaze is far off, eyes still shining.

“ _Oui_ ,” he answers. “What is to be done about it?”

Lumière shakes his head. “It is not our business to interfere. That is the way of service. We have no place in the Master’s decisions or how he chooses to raise the prince.”

“No.” Chapeau’s face hardens. “The boy is our responsibility, Lumière, and we have already failed him. And _Madame_. It is not just _business_. I care for Adam like he is family.”

“As do I, Emile,” Lumière says, voice thick. “You _know_ that, yes? I would do anything for that boy.”

“Then what are we doing?” Chapeau counters, keeping to a whisper. “Tell me. How can we turn our heads the other way while that wretched excuse of a man ruins every hope _Madame_ ever had for him? _How_?”

Lumière doesn’t look at him. He takes a languid sip of brandy. “Because our jobs depend upon it, Emile, and that is what makes it so unfortunate. Speak against the Master, and what becomes of you? You will never have a job in service anywhere in France, he will make sure of that.”

Chapeau lowers his head. He knows his friend is right, but the ache in his heart doesn’t fade.

Lumière finishes his glass. “And one day—sooner rather than later, I hope—the Master will leave this Earth and perhaps then our boy will return to us.”

Chapeau doesn’t believe that, not for a single moment, but he admits to himself that he will be glad when the day comes. But by then it will be too late.

The quiet stretches between them, and while Chapeau stares into the far corner of the room, Lumière wrenches open the bottle and refills their glasses. Chapeau is only vaguely paying attention when Lumière discovers a piece of parchment on the floor. The scent of lavender blossoms into his senses, rousing him from that dark, faraway place, and when the room comes back into focus, Lumière is wearing a salacious grin.

“Ah, what do we have here?” He elbows Chapeau in the ribs, brandishing the letter with a dramatic flourish. “Chapeau, I never knew you were a man of _romance_ …come, you must tell me about this young woman.”

They finish the bottle sometime during the early hours of the morning, the dull ache soothed by the aroma of lavender.


	16. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #16: "Memory" Beast lets Belle go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because everyone loves "Evermore" right??

She was nothing but a speck of bright yellow in the distance, like a flower blooming in the midst of this endless, monochromatic winter. He moved recklessly across the ramparts, the walkways, peering beyond the snow and wind to catch a glimpse of Belle until she disappeared from his life forever. She would take the sunlight with her; he wouldn’t see another sunrise as long as he remained here.

But what else could he have done? Belle was no longer his prisoner—she hadn’t been his prisoner since she had returned to the castle by her own choice. And now it had been _his_ decision to let her go. To deny her freedom, to keep her from the father she loved so dearly any longer, would have been selfish. She deserved kindness, more than he believed he could ever grant her. He hoped that this would be enough to perhaps mend the impression he had left upon her when they first met, though he was doubtful that she would allow her thoughts to wander back to her time here.

Time would let her memories of this place fade. The mirror would be neglected on a shelf or tucked away in a drawer to collect dust. She would not look back on the creature— _the monster_ —who had harmed her father and stolen her away against her will. Libraries, poetry, walks in the snow—even an intimate dance could not allow Belle to see past his cursed form. He’d been a fool to think she could be the one to break the spell, when she deserved far better than _him_.

He knew for certain that he loved Belle the moment he watched her retreating back, heels colliding with marble in her rush, chestnut waves flying. He knew he loved her when he was strong enough to let her go.

There were moments between them before, but he hadn’t known that what he felt had been love, not then. Something so simple yet so complex; something that had left a gaping hole in his life until Belle filled it with sunlight and laughter and soft, warm gazes. She was so unlike anyone he had ever met, and he doubted he would meet another person like her ever again.

His fearless, intelligent, clever Belle. Tempestuous as she was playful; stubborn and compassionate in equal measure, she frustrated him and endeared him to no end. Belle had reached the deepest parts of his soul. His humanity, which he’d thought he all but lost. She had breathed life into this castle again, made it feel like home.

Belle was his home.

She would be here still, with him, her presence lingering in the castle like an apparition. He would cling to her in moments of despair, willing the memory of her stay. Not a day or night will pass where he will not think of his Belle.

Never had he loved someone so completely. He did not know that it could hurt this much—he almost regretted allowing himself to fall. (But he didn’t, not really; not a single second.)

He settled amongst the ramparts, looking out at his snowy domain, contemplating eternity.

Now Belle was nothing to him but a memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone taking the time to comment or leave kudos and support this little challenge! I always worry I'm running out of steam and a new comment or kudos helps keep me going. Hope you're not getting bored or tired of these! And thank you for letting me indulge my love for Chapeau every now and then...I never know how well those chapters are going to be received. I appreciate everyone's feedback. :)


	17. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #17: "Passion" Belle finally meets her prince.

She’s never been kissed like this, nor has she ever kissed anyone quite so fiercely. Somewhere around her, the castle is reforming itself, shaking off its ruins and dust and cobwebs, and the sun is ascending on the horizon, but Belle is lost to their kiss. Where moments before she was broken, wallowing in heartache beside his still body, now she feels she is whole again, like the castle, like the beast who is now a man—a _prince_. There is no doubt that he is alive, for his heart beats under her palm, and she feels his breath mingling with hers, his soft, eager lips capturing her own, over and over.

Belle leans into his hands, reveling in his touch as his fingers muss her hair. She feels him draw patterns with his fingertips across the small of her back, pressing her closer; she knows he’s lost himself, too, for neither of them are the least bit worried about propriety as this moment continues to burn between them. He is so warm against her—warm, alive, _human_. Every part of her has awoken under his touch, every nerve sparking, _wanting_.

She watched him transform in front of her very eyes, but still Belle cannot believe that this is all real, that those three words she’d uttered after she’d thought it was too late had brought him back to her.

Tears slip down her cheeks; Belle knows he’s crying, too, when she tastes the salt across his lips. His chest shudders under hands. She releases him from their kiss when he sways a little on his feet, lacing her fingers between his. Steadying him. It amazes her that they can speak to one another without saying a word aloud, that somehow they already know each other well enough that touches and glances mean everything. He lowers to his knees on the floor, her hand still in his, and she follows, tucking her legs underneath her petticoats opposite him.

They are both a mess, though neither of them care, and Belle is surprised that he’s been able to stand upright for this long. She sees the exhaustion in his shoulders, sees how the battle and the bullets and the transformation has ravaged his body. He sighs, and Belle moves closer to him, rising off her heels. He smiles a little, perhaps to reassure her, and leaves a kiss in the center of her palm.

She can’t stop touching him. He hardly seems to mind, watches her careful fingertips with those achingly beautiful blue eyes of his. Belle traces the hint of stubble across his jaw, sweeps the pads of her fingers along his nose, down his lips, trying to reconcile the man sitting in front of her with the image she saw behind claw marks in all of those destroyed portraits.

His eyes shine with tears as he looks at her—it makes her want to cry again, because she _knows_ those eyes, but they aren’t the _same_ , somehow. In a good way, she thinks. He looks at her like she’s the very sun that’s now spilling golden light across the floor and Belle sees that same kind, gentle soul of the man that was always there, hidden in a beastly form.

No one has ever looked at her that way.

Her fingers start to tremble, and he takes her hand between both of his as she settles back onto her heels. Belle is definitely, absolutely crying now, though her mouth almost hurts from how much she’s grinning at him.

“Belle,” he says, and decides right there that the way he says her name sounds more beautiful than any poetry she’s ever heard. “Are you all right?”

She nods, leaning over to kiss him again. Her eyes flutter closed when he returns the kiss as if they weren’t just left with swollen lips, panting, minutes earlier. As if every kiss from now until forever will feel like their first. He wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her into his lap; Belle breaks from their kiss when she settles on top of his folded knees, giggling.

Belle is still laughing as she wrenches her head away from where she’d settled against his chest. Her hands braced on his torso, she peers at him with narrowed eyes.

“We’ve a horrible lack of propriety,” she teases.

He laughs, and she is too tired to fight the blush that creeps up her face. “It might be far too late for that now.”

“You’re not concerned?” Belle quirks an eyebrow. She’d kissed and touched him in a manner that was more intimate that anything she’d experience in her life, and yet she didn’t know his name. “You are, as I happen to recall, a _prince_.”

His thumb brushes the curve of her cheek. “No,” he says. “To you, I’m Adam, and nothing more than that. I haven’t been just Adam in a…very long time.” He ducks his head, ever so slightly. “You never saw a prince, only a man, and for that I am…forever grateful.”

“Adam,” she breathes, searching his eyes. It suits him. “And…you’re happy? With me, a simple country girl? A commoner?”

Adam grins, leaves a kiss in the middle of her forehead. “You are _so much more_ than that, Belle,” he tells her, “and it is _because_ of those things that I love you. I cannot imagine being happy with anyone else.”

“I’m not a princess.”

“You don’t have to be—I’ll not ask that of you. Not until you’re ready.” Adam kisses her, fleetingly, on the lips. “You’re my Belle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're still enjoying these! Thank you so much for all of the support! 
> 
> I'm SO behind on these but they will get done, even if I have to continue into July. Just wanted to let all of you know that I'll be out of town this weekend so I won't be able to update on Saturday. I'm going to try to at least get another prompt posted later tonight, though. Fingers crossed. ;)


	18. Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #18: "Fruit" Belle shares breakfast with Agathe.

Belle liked the early mornings before the streets became overcrowded and she had to dodge contemptuous looks from some of Villeneuve’s more unpleasant inhabitants. It was a hazy morning, the sky a buttery yellow edging on the lightest of blues, with thick, fluffy clouds highlighted gold and pink against the sunrise. The air smelled of dew and wildflowers, and best of all, she found the square mostly vacant.

With her steps light, bouncing on the tips of her toes, Belle passed the bubbling fountain and weaved through vendors setting up shop to find the bakery. Her petticoats rustled around her worn boots as she walked, a book tucked lovingly underneath one arm. She smelled the bakery before she spotted it, the scent of baking bread and pastries rising into the morning air. She and Papa did not always have much to spend, but he insisted, at least, that they had fresh bread every day.

Her stomach rumbled at the prospect, eyeing the trays of baguettes and croissants where the steam still rose from their golden brown crusts. The more she inhaled the scent, the more her mouth watered. She dug around in a pocket for the coin Papa had set aside—they had a little more of it this week, and he’d given her permission to treat them both. Belle exchanged a smile with the baker, trading coin for a large baguette that she tucked into her pocket.

After thinking about it a moment longer, she also chose a couple of fresh croissants, which the baker’s wife wrapped in parchment and presented to her. Papa had a fondness for croissants; she’d keep them safely bound until he returned from the market tomorrow. Belle found a space for them in a smaller pocket, the remaining coin tight in her fist. She hummed, brown eyes scanning across carts and bright canvas coverings to seek out the right one. Ah, _there_. The turquoise canvas flapped lightly in the breeze over a lopsided wooden cart.

" _Bonjour_ , Belle,” the young woman greeted with a dimpled smile. She had a wonderful smile, the kind that reached the deep brown of her eyes. She wore a bright turquoise jacket that seemed to match the canvas overhead, a striking color against the dark brown tone of her skin.

“Good morning, Julienne,” Belle greeted.

Julienne was one of the rare villagers who did not treat Belle with scorn and had welcomed her and Papa to Villeneuve when they first arrived. A day after they’d settled into their cottage, Julienne showed up at their door with a basket full of preserves and jams, and Belle had been enamored with them ever since. Whenever she had extra coin to spare, she found it impossible not to spend it here; it was sweeter, perhaps, that Belle used their last scrapings of currency to keep a friend in business.

“And how are you this morning?” Julienne asked, stocking the table between them with glass jars of her exquisite jams and preserves.

“Well, thank you,” Belle answered, picking up jars to scrutinize them. She had a difficult decision to make.

“And your father?”

“Out of town,” Belle said. “He’s due back tomorrow.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Julienne nodded. She leveled Belle with a knowing smile. “Would you like me to recommend something? Perhaps something you have not tried yet?”

Belle laughed. “Yes! That would be perfect.”

Julienne deliberated, humming and gathering up a few small jars. She pushed them all to the front of the table and tapped a fingertip on each lid as she announced them. “Blackberry jam,” she said, the smile returning to her eyes. “Cherry preserves, which are my personal favorite.”

Julienne tapped the final lid. “And, raspberry jam, which I’ve come across quite accidentally. I had been trying to get the recipe right…it seemed like I’d been missing something. And then, just the other day, I found a recipe in a drawer at home. Imagine that! Don’t know where it came from, it was not my handwriting. But, _mon dieu_ , it is _delicious_.”

Belle bit into her bottom lip. “I wish I could take them all,” she said. “But I have just enough coin left for two.”

Julienne waved her off. “Take the raspberry, I’ll not charge you for it.”

“Are you sure?” Belle dropped the last of her coin into Julienne’s hand.

“ _Oui_ , I insist. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Belle grinned, scooping up the jars carefully. “Have a good day, Julienne.”

By the time she reached the front gate of their cottage, Belle was juggling the jars in her hands, hoping desperately that one of them would not slip from her grasp, spilling sticky preserves all over her boots. She groaned, frustrated, when the book slid out from under her arm and landed in a dirty puddle, sloshing brown water onto the hem of her petticoats. As she contemplated the best way to maneuver the gate open, a hand reached out and unlatched the lock, pushing it open with a loud squeak. Belle looked up from the jars in her hands to see Agathe bending down to retrieve the fallen book.

Agathe straightened up, lifting the edge of her apron to wipe off the mud from the book’s gilded hardcover. She offered a silent nod and hugged it to her chest, gesturing for Belle to step through the gate.

“Thank you, Agathe,” Belle smiled.

The woman dressed in tatters and rarely spoke except to beg for coin and extra food on Villeneuve’s streets during the day. But like Julienne, she had been nothing but kind to her and Papa. Belle felt a pang of sympathy every time their paths crossed, regarding the woman’s thin frame and sallow face.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any money left,” Belle told her. “But would you care to join me for breakfast? It’s quite lonely without Papa.”

Agathe smiled, and that pang of sympathy dissolved into something akin to joy, for Belle had never actually seen Agathe smile.

They settled in the cottage’s modest kitchen, golden daylight now falling through the curtains. Agathe left the book on a table strewn with a mess of brushes and teacups stained with paint. Belle deposited their breakfast onto the rickety table in their kitchen, then grabbed a couple of butter knives and a sharper cutting knife, along with a pair of earthenware plates. She laid out a clean cloth, where she left the baguette and, without a moment’s hesitation, presented the croissants. Surely, Papa would understand. Agathe looked close to starving—when was the last time she had eaten a hearty meal?

Belle lowered into the chair opposite Agathe and cut the baguette into generous slices. She pushed it toward Agathe first, while she busied herself popping open the jars of jams and preserves.

“How are you finding Villeneuve, Belle?” Agathe asked. Her voice surprised Belle; it was firm, yet lilting. She dug into the bread and preserves eagerly, slathering the croissant with cherry preserves until it dripped bright scarlet onto her plate.

Belle hummed, coating a piece of bread in Julienne’s mysterious raspberry jam. “It’s a pretty little town,” she conceded. “Though its people are quite…temperamental. There _are_ a few exceptions, of course, but most days I find it rather miserable.”

Belle’s eyes widened the minute the words left her mouth. She felt foolish. “I’m sorry, Agathe. I don’t mean to—surely there are worse things…”

“Don’t worry yourself, dear,” Agathe answered, around a mouthful of croissant. “You meant no harm.”

“The way the villagers treat you,” Belle continued. “How can you stand to stay here?”

Agathe shrugged. “Their opinion means very little to me, and I have every right to spend my days as I please. Like you said yourself, it’s a pretty little town. It’s all I know.”

“You’re different than them.” Belle said, peering at Agathe across the tabletop.

Agathe smiled for the second time. “And so are you,” she said. “I like that about you, Belle. No matter what these villagers may think of you, I have a feeling that you’ll not conform to their ways. _Different_ does not mean _bad_ , you know.”

She wiped her fingers on the front of her apron, then picked up a few pieces of parchment that Belle had left scattered on the edge of the rectangular table. Agathe appraised them with a look of intense interest, eyebrows lifting.

“These are marvelous.” Agathe lowered the parchment, slightly. “What are they?”

“Plans for a laundry system.” Belle stared at Agathe, eyes downcast in a sheepish manner. “I haven’t worked it out exactly. Not yet, anyway.”

“You have a talented mind. Creative, like your father, yes?”

Belle shoved the last of her bread and jam into her mouth, a shy smile on her lips. Agathe’s mouth was set in a thin line, but Belle could see the corner quirking upward.

“I’m not sure the villagers would agree,” she said once she’d finished chewing. “They seem to favor the word _odd_.”

Agathe scoffed. “Oh, that one isn’t new.” She laughed. “They’ve called me that for years. I take it as a compliment.” She rose to her feet, chair scraping across the floor behind her. “Thank you for your kindness this morning, Belle. Breakfast was delicious.”

“Take the cherry preserves with you,” Belle said, pushing the lid back onto the jar. “And the other croissant.”

“Are you…sure?”

Belle’s smile brightened. “Please. I have more than enough here for me and Papa. And you saved my book.”

Agathe curtseyed. “What a ray of sunshine you are in this pretty little town, dear Belle. Thank you, a thousand times over.”


	19. Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #19: "Cat" Belle helps Beast with an unsightly side effect of his current form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a ridiculous headcanon that I love, so I decided this prompt was perfect for it.

Plumette notices it first.

It’s some time before they move about the castle, getting used to legs and arms that don’t work quite the same, trading flesh and blood for wood and brass and porcelain. It takes even longer for the Master to emerge from the rooms of the West Wing, and when he does, he keeps to the dark. They hear nothing but his voice echoing in the halls, see nothing but a tattered robe disappearing away from where the light reaches. They steal glimpses of him in shadow, a broad, towering silhouette, no longer human.

Plumette hasn’t seen much of him, not like Mrs. Potts or Chapeau or Cogsworth. He keeps his distance, makes himself scarce. She tries to conjure up an image from the pieces that she’s caught before he’d slipped away into the dark. Horns, stretching like jagged tree branches. Claws that patter against the marble floors. A deep, guttural growl that feels as if it will shake the castle’s foundations. It is hard to believe that the creature used to be a man, much less one whose face she used to paint with vivid hues.

But she does believe it, eventually, because now she has _wings_ and nothing is the same as it once was.

She flitters across the castle, soaring, swooping, as light as the feathers that carry her. There is weeks’ worth of neglect, evident in the layer of dust on the tables, clouding the mirrors and every other available piece of furniture that has not become sentient. Glittering webs like spun sugar have made a home in the torches and across the chairs in the dining rooms and opened doorways. They have always been a problem in the castle, but it seems the spiders had made themselves especially comfortable in her absence. Plumette imagines the dust coating everything, thick, gritty, as the years wear on.

Perhaps keeping up her normal duties will make this sentence easier to bear.

It’s during her daily chores, fluttering back and forth in the rooms of the West Wing—for the longest time, the Master would not let any of them in—that Plumette notices something… _else_ in her sweeping. Hair. Or is it fur? It cannot belong to Frou-Frou, who no longer has fur to shed. It’s brown, thick, and coarse, Plumette supposes, though she doesn’t have hands to assess it properly.

And _mon dieu_ , it is _everywhere_.

Every afternoon, Plumette flutters in the Master’s wake, always waiting until he is out of sight before she sweeps. It is impossible to keep up; everything he touches, brushes against has fur clinging to it. Soon, the rest of the staff notices Plumette’s exasperation and the Master’s unsightly shedding. It makes Cogsworth’s gears twitch, as though his mechanical body just _knows_ that if he were human, he would be sneezing into his kerchief every five minutes.

None of them want to broach the subject, for fear of the Master’s temper exploding across the castle. He is fragile enough as it is about his new form, and Cogsworth warns them that it would be a dangerous path to tread. They stand in silent agreement, but the following day, Plumette leaves a hairbrush in the West Wing, as if it will help.

It goes untouched, collecting dust.

 ***

Her cloak smells like him.

Belle stands in the middle of the West Wing’s grandiose bedchamber, her cloak held aloft so that it catches the light from the fire. She’d been pulling the fabric through her fingers, looking for any frayed ends or tears that might have come from her venture into the woods and the wolves’ sharp teeth. The scent blossoms into the air in front of her—the raw bitterness of the winter, an almost earthy musk that’s entirely _him_. It’s a feral scent, but she doesn’t find it unpleasant.

When she withdraws her fingers, they come away with fur clinging to them. She arches an eyebrow, inspecting the dense, brown hair that coats her fingertips and, as she looks closer, the folds of her cloak. And now, she realizes, it’s all over her petticoats. Belle shakes her cloak out a little, but it’s to no avail; the fur seems to have adhered to the fabric like wax to a piece of parchment.

“What are you doing?” His question drifts across the room, traces of sleep holding onto his words.

Belle lowers the cloak just enough to find him over the top of the fabric. A long silence passes between them, and it’s in this heavy space that Belle deliberates the best way to…go about this. She doesn’t want to embarrass him—he’s been through enough already. But perhaps now is the best time. After all, he’d burned the tatters he’d called clothes before Belle had tended to his wounds.

Belle sighs. “Papa and I had a cat years ago, when I was young and we lived outside of Versailles,” she tells him, speaking carefully. “She used to sit all over my clothes…sleep curled up in my bed. She was _adorable_ , and a wonderful companion, but she shed her fur everywhere. Soft, white tufts of it would come away on my hands and it would just…cling to _everything_.” Belle laughs, though not at him, she hopes he realizes. “Quite a lot like this.”

He looks embarrassed, which was what she’d been trying to avoid. Her stomach sinks when he turns away from her, pretending to rearrange the bed linens, unsure of how to respond.

“I never really thought about it,” he says, at last. There’s an edge to his tone that Belle can’t ignore, and it makes her stomach plummet further.

Belle averts her eyes, draping the cloak over one arm. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It was just an observation…I didn’t…didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“No, of course you didn’t,” he replies, and Belle looks up. “You compared me to a cat.”

The corner of Belle’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. _Is he being_ funny _?_

“Well, there is something that can be done about it,” she answers, breaking some sort of moment that hangs between them. “I mean, that is if you are willing to actually take care of yourself.”

“ _That_ feels like an insult.”

“No,” Belle corrects firmly. “That is also an observation. Those clothes should have been burned ages ago. You’re the master of this castle, aren’t you? You should dress yourself as such.”

“A master of a castle does not shed,” he says. His tone is grumpy. Miserable.

Belle makes a noise of impatience. “I told you,” she crosses the room to the vanity, and when she pivots to face him, she brandishes a hairbrush, “there’s a perfectly reasonable solution.”

He holds the brush as if it is a foreign object, as if he’s never seen one in his life. It looks almost comical in his fist; his large fingers curl around the handle, dwarfing it. He stares between the brush and Belle, and then heaves a long sigh. His heart isn’t into the idea at all, that much she can tell. She can’t understand why he is so reluctant. Was he really resigned to wallowing in filth?

“Here.” She holds out her hand. “Let me.”

Mouth agape, he relinquishes the brush back to her. Belle perches herself on the edge of the bed, and he sits up, slowly, careful of the wounds that still throb and hurt. She lets the brush hover for a second, hyperaware of how close they are, how the fragile the peace they’ve made over this short span of time can be easily broken. Belle drags the brush through the tangled fur of his mane, using the gentlest touch that she can manage. But she can only do so much; the fur, in its neglect, is matted and snarled, and the bristles snag. She feels him tense, hears the quiet hiss of pain that leaves him.

“Sorry,” Belle answers quickly, wincing. She pulls the brush away. Fur has already collected in the bristles in lengthy stands, most of it frizzy and broken. “I’m trying to be gentle, but there _are_ a lot of knots. It’ll hurt less if you decide to keep it up. A bath would probably do you some good as well.”

Belle feels the growl that rumbles through him and she can’t decide if it’s because of the suggestion or the brush tugging on his mane.

“…Or not,” she bites out, eyebrows knit together.

After a while the bristles hurt less, and Belle has amassed a pile of fur that almost resembles a small animal. She’d taken his stony silence as contempt, but it’s not until she’s begun carding her fingers through his mane that she realizes he’s fallen asleep. Belle laughs, knowing that he will not appreciate the relentless comparisons to her childhood cat. She continues to run her fingers through his thick hair, marveling at its softness, the light brown highlights that catch in the firelight.

For a moment, Belle wonders about doing the same to a tangle of dark golden hair, to the man she’s begun to suspect is hidden beneath.


	20. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #20: "Sick" Belle catches a cold, and Beast finds himself in a panic.

“Oh, Master, everything looks lovely,” Mrs. Potts’ voice echoes through the library, metal and porcelain clinking as her trolley wheels along the floor. “Isn’t this just beautiful? Roses from the garden, a table in front of the fire… _oh_ , Belle is going to appreciate the effort you’ve made here, I know it.”

He manages a weak smile, a sheepish nod of his head. The trolley is laden with their best polished silverware and floral patterned china teacups, plates, and saucers, at his request. His mother always favored this set—it was one of the things she’d brought with her from England—and Belle had remarked the other day about the pastel flower design while they shared afternoon tea here in the library.

He takes care in transferring the pots of tea and hot chocolate from the trolley to the table, arranging the porcelain containers of sugar, cream, and cinnamon around them. The hot chocolate is strong; the decadent scent swirls around hints of wood smoke from the fire and the breakfast that’s laid out across the table, thin trails of steam rising to greet the sunlight from the wide windows. Baskets of rolls and croissants baked fresh this morning, pots of butter and berry jams and preserves. Hearty potatoes coated in seasonings, tureens of porridge, and dishes piled with cooked sausages.

He had risen early to get the library in order, clearing a table of haphazard stacks of books, a layer of maps, and a scattered chessboard. Though he normally detested the sight of roses, he’d ventured to the colonnade to bring back a fistful of the white ones, dropping them into a crystal vase at the center of the table. The better part of a half hour had been spent setting their places; he wasn’t sure if the attention to detail had been borne out of nervousness or a need to impress Belle, though he supposed both were entirely possible.

Belle has done so much for him already, he finds himself trying to do the same for her in the simplest of ways. He doesn’t think anything will come of it, but for however long she stays here, she deserves to be treated well. Whatever it is that he feels for her comes secondary.

“Have you seen her yet?” he asks, glancing at the clock. It’s already a quarter after ten. “I feared that she would be in the library before I arrived early this morning.”

“No, not yet,” Mrs. Potts answers. “I’m sure she’ll be along shortly, not to worry, Master.”

Mrs. Potts trundles out of the library, leaving him to his thoughts. He worries, despite her reassurance, and passes the time by pacing around the table, rearranging items and checking the clock. Belle is an early riser; she told him once that morning and dusk were her favorite times of the day. He’d instructed Lumière to direct her to library if she came looking for him in the usual dining room where they took most of their meals together.

What is keeping her?

He is standing in front of the fire, hands clasped behind his back, when at last he hears Belle’s delicate footsteps.

“Good morning—” He tries, he _really_ does, to exude an amiable tone, but once he turns around and sees her, the grin he’d managed disappears in an instant. “Belle,” he exhales, and the worry creeps back in, this time for an entirely different reason altogether. “Are you all right? No, of course you’re not—that was stupid of me to ask.”

 _What a fool_ , he thinks, and covers the distance between them before he can breathe again.

He hovers in front of her awkwardly, fighting an urge to wrap his arms around her, pull her into a warm embrace. No, that wouldn’t be right at all. It’s frightening to even acknowledge it as it flitters across his mind, an intrusive wish he has no business entertaining. Not to mention it would be improper—Belle is still dressed in her nightclothes, and the fact that she’s standing in front of him in the middle of the sunlit library is against all sorts of societal decorum. She looks impossibly small, her arms hugging her body to keep the silk dressing gown that she’s wearing over her shift draped shut. And, he realizes quickly, she’s freezing. Belle’s shoulders tremble, her jaw set tightly.

Belle sneezes, bent double, and sighs out of frustration. “I…I’m so sorry,” she says, and glances down at her nightclothes. Her voice is thick and nasal. “I feel awful.”

He plucks the kerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and offers it to her. “You should have stayed in bed.”

“I thought I could manage it.” There is a hint of something in her eyes as she takes the kerchief, but he can’t decide what it is. She dabs at her nose, sniffling. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting. Lumière mentioned the library, and I couldn’t stay away.” Belle sneezes again, and this time it’s followed by a groan.

He laughs, despite the situation. He doesn’t quite know where it comes from, but Belle doesn’t seem to take offense to it.

She attempts a half-hearted smile. “I feel I should warn you, I’m absolutely terrible at being sick. I hate it.”

“I don’t know of anyone who enjoys it,” he answers. “Though I’m unsurprised at your…fortitude.”

“What you call _fortitude_ , Papa would consider _stubbornness_.”

Belle sways a little, and before he can think of what he’s doing, he grabs her arm to steady her. He’s surprised by the way she leans into his touch, grounding herself.

“Perhaps I should escort you back to the East Wing,” he says. “You can rest—”

She peers around his back and then, eyes wide, stares up at him, her hand suddenly gripping his wrist. “Was this…meant for us?”

 _For you_ , he wants to say, but he’s too caught up in how she said _us_ , like they are a pair, like it’s a normal occurrence and she has no problem with it whatsoever.

“Yes,” he swallows hard, “but I can have it brought up to your room, where you’ll be more comfortable. And warmer.” Belle hasn’t stopped shivering, and it bothers him more than he’s willing to admit.

“No,” Belle sniffles, “no, I’ll stay here. I’m all right.”

“Belle…”

“You went through all of this trouble,” she continues. “And it looks _beautiful_ …I wish I could _smell_ it, though. That’s quite disappointing.” Belle sneezes into the kerchief. “ _Ugh_ , this blasted cold—I’m so sorry I’ve ruined your surprise.”

Her weak smile returns, though his fears haven’t subsided. Her skin is ashen, her cheeks are pink with fever, and there’s a sheen of sweat along her brow. “Thank you, for doing all of this.”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” he replies, dodging the compliment. “Here, at least sit down.”

He guides her to the nearest sofa, where she doesn’t let go of his fingers until she’s tucked her legs underneath her. Belle shudders as the chills wrack her petite frame, her head lolling to the back of the sofa. He doesn’t want to leave her side, not even for a moment, but he dashes over to the table long enough to pour a steaming cup full of hot chocolate.

“Something to warm you up,” he explains while she reaches for the teacup. Belle hums, cradling it between her palms, inhaling the wisp of steam.

“Hot chocolate?” Belle asks, one eyebrow lifting. He nods, and she takes an experimental sip, and then another. “Mmm…I can nearly taste it.” She sniffles. “Thank you.”

“Are you still cold?”

It unnerves him to see her so weak, to watch her tremble, to find that some of the light in her eyes has faded. Illness makes him uncomfortable. He can feel the panic bubbling in the center of his chest, his thoughts running into the worst possible outcomes. He knows it’s nothing more than a simple cold, but what if it blossomed into something more sinister? He’d be content to doom himself to an eternity in this beastly form than have Belle succumb to this drafty castle and endless winter.

She gives him a barely perceptible nod over the rim of her teacup. “I can’t seem to stop shivering,” she says once she’s drained half of the hot chocolate. “It’s like I’m cold from the inside out…like I’ll never be able to get warm.”

He’s refilling the teacup when Belle asks, “Will you sit with me?” He almost overfills the cup and drops the teapot all at once.

Belle takes the teacup gratefully, then pats the empty cushion next to her. There is a breath that hangs between them, a moment that seems as though it should be so easy. He still feels unworthy of the casual friendship Belle has begun to offer him. But he wants to comfort her, and it seems that she is unconcerned with propriety. And perhaps, she is seeking comfort from him?

There are no blankets to offer her in the library (he will ask Chapeau later to resolve this, since Belle spends a great deal of her evenings reading now), so instead he shrugs out of his banyan. It’s as good as any quilt, made of blue silk and lined with wool. He knows from prior experience that it covers her from head to foot, and it will offer her warmth without entertaining more thoughts of the two of them huddled on the sofa. He drapes it around her shoulders, somewhat pleased when she wraps herself in it, sinking into the depths of the cozy fabric.

She sighs, content, and levels him with a grin. It’s a moment before she speaks again, this time peering up at him beneath long eyelashes, the rosy tint of her cheeks growing brighter.

“You know,” Belle says slowly, “I’d hoped you would lend me your robe. Is that terribly foolish of me? It was so _warm_ the last time.” She nods at the empty space next to her. “Come, sit.”

“Last…last time?” he chokes out, as if he’s forgotten. No, he hasn’t, but he hadn’t thought that Belle would remember, or care enough to bring it up.

“I fell asleep in one of the drawing rooms,” Belle answers, and finally, he settles his body into the cushion, leaving a gap of space between them. “And when I woke up, I found myself buried in this robe. I know it’s this one.” Belle chances a look at him as if weighing her next statement. “It smells like you.” The way she says it, he can almost hear what she really wants to say: _I know it was you._

“Oh, I…” he wants to apologize, but she stops him, her palm reaching out from the robe to settle on his arm.

“No, I rather like it,” Belle tells him. And then takes a sip of hot chocolate, shying away from the awkward tension that seems to radiate off him. What is he supposed to say to _that_?

“Are you…any warmer?”

Belle hums, deliberating for a moment. She eliminates the space he left between them, her knees pressed into the side of his thigh, her shoulder leaning against his arm. Belle lets her head drop to his shoulder, but lifts it to find his eyes once his muscles tense.

“Is this all right?” Belle asks. There are shadows under her eyes, but they’re still the kind, endearing brown he’s found himself lost in during these past few weeks. Her expression is soft, but questioning, waiting for his permission.

Without a word, he tucks her head against his shoulder, one large hand pressed against her jaw and ear, fingers somewhat tangled in her unkempt hair. Belle relaxes, then, the teacup resting atop her knee, her shivering finally beginning to subside. It takes him a while to release the tension in his muscles, but he does so eventually, and Belle falls asleep against him, snoring lightly.

He stays awake, listening to her inhale and exhale, until his fears of her leaving him disappear by afternoon’s light.


	21. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #21: "Dance" Belle and Adam reminisce in the quiet of Belle's cottage bedroom.

Belle hefts the stubborn window open, letting in a gust of rain-drenched breeze. Outside is a mix of sun and rain, droplets landing with a gentle sound against the panes of glass, throwing bursts of color onto the walls and floorboards. She hadn’t realized how tiny and cramped her attic bedroom was until she saw Adam sprawled across her bed—all six feet of him lounging on his side, one hand propped under his head, fingers paging languidly through a book.

The cream linens and blue-and-white toile quilt underneath him are a tousled mess. His hair falls across his shoulders in disheveled strands, a shadow of stubble paints his jaw. Both of them are casually dressed; Belle in bare feet and nothing but a pair of bloomers with her shift tucked into them, Adam wearing a rumpled shirt, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his stockings somewhere around the downstairs sofa where he’d left them last night.

Belle knows her father (a notoriously light sleeper) had heard Adam sneak up to her room, and yet he’s puttering around below them without a word about it. She thinks the villagers would _definitely_ have something to say about it if ever they found out, but she cannot bring herself to care. Not now. It feels so surreal to have Adam lying across her bed, to know that they’d spent the night here curled up together. To have him in their cottage, where his curious hands roam across her belongings, where he makes himself comfortable in the space that has always brought her escape from this wretched village.

To have Adam at all, really, is a miracle, when she’d come so close to losing him.

Here, it feels as though she’s sharing another part of her soul with him. And she _wants_ to more than anything. It’s been a week and a half since the spell broke, and Belle knows she will be content to spend a lifetime sharing everything with Adam.

Adam looks up at her from the pages of Père Robert’s copy of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. He stretches out a little, his feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. “Have you figured out what you’re taking back to the castle?”

Belle plants a hand on one hip. “There isn’t much,” she says, “but I detest the thought of packing.” She wrinkles her nose and Adam mimics her with a laugh. The playfulness in his eyes twists at her insides, sparking a fire that she had to quell more than once last night while they whispered back and forth to each other, his breath hot against the back of her neck.

“Belle!” Papa hollers up the stairs, effectively breaking the moment. “I…uh, I’m meeting Père Robert at the tavern for luncheon. I expect I shall return sometime in the late afternoon, but I may…take Philippe out. I trust you and Adam will fare all right by yourselves?”  

Belle pauses at the top of the staircase, watching her father search for his hat. “Yes, Papa,” she grins. “You left it by the front door, remember?”

“Ah! Yes, thank you.” He whirls around to offer a smile. Belle crosses her arms over chest, shaking her head. “I’ll see you both later, then. For dinner.”

“All right, Papa,” Belle says. “Say hello to Père Robert for me.”

“Right. Of course.” He grabs his hat just before the door closes behind him, earning a nod from Belle.

“Your father is very…trusting,” Adam says when Belle paces back to the center of the small room. She sees the fire has returned to his eyes, a crooked smirk across his lips. They haven’t kept their hands off one another since the curse broke, and now, in these close quarters, alone with Adam, Belle is almost inclined to test the limits.

“He’s seen how happy you’ve made me,” Belle answers, tugging open the armoire nestled in the opposite corner of the room. “He trusts my judgement, and…he’s rather laidback when societal etiquette is concerned.”

“So _that’s_ where you get it from,” Adam muses.

Belle turns, peering from behind the armoire door, eyes narrowed. “You haven’t done an impressive job of it either thus far, as I recall. Or do you need reminding?”

She hears his breath hitch. “I might.”

“You’re an awful tease,” Belle scolds, though she’s wearing a devious expression that rivals Adam’s. She can still feel the warmth of his palm across her stomach, tracing patterns over her skin in the darkness of her bedroom.

Belle shoves aside a winter cloak and at least half a dozen petticoats before her fingers brush against fine, yellow silk. Her chest tightens as the gold embroidery catches the sun, and a second later, she can’t see anything through the tears that have welled up in her eyes.

“Belle? What is it?” Behind her, the floor groans and creaks under Adam’s footsteps, and she feels the warmth of his body down the length of her spine. He rests his hands on either side of her waist, and she’s glad for it. For him.

Belle hears his quiet gasp. “ _Oh_. I’d wondered what became of your dress that night.”

 _That night._ The one where Belle’s entire world had been torn apart until three simple words had pulled it all back together. That dreadful, extraordinary, traumatizing, magical night.

“Papa must have saved it after I,” Belle struggles, her lower lip quivering, a tear slipping down her cheek, “…after I escaped back to the castle.”

Adam kisses the top of her head, wrapping his arms all the way around her waist from behind. She’s still pleased that he radiates heat like one of the castle’s hearths.

“I loved dancing with you,” he says, wrenching her away from those terrible memories before they’re able to consume her. “I was so nervous, so…worried I’d do something wrong or harm you in some way. But then you looked at me as if I was human. And then, suddenly, we were just a man and a woman sharing their first dance.” Belle lets go of the dress. “I cannot wait to dance with you again, my love.”

Belle twirls around in his hold, circling her arms against his neck. She rises on tiptoe and brushes her lips along his jaw. “It’s not a ballroom,” she says. “And neither of us are exactly dressed for the occasion, but…” Belle sways from one side to the other, then takes a first step into a slow waltz.

Adam follows her lead, like always. “It’s perfect all the same.”

They sweep around her bedroom, spinning, always in each other’s orbit, under flecks of rainbow and sunlight.


	22. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #22: "Routine" To Adam's delight, Belle finds that some habits are hard to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys.
> 
> I'm so, SO sorry it's taken literal AGES for me to update. I apologize. My inspiration kind of wandered away from me, and I'm also trying to work on original stories, so my fics fell by the wayside. 
> 
> I hope you'll still be willing to read this! :)

It had become an unspoken routine, when he was a beast.

Adam had very much wanted to impress Belle, to reform himself into as much of a gentleman as his monstrous body would allow. She’d deserved more than a bedraggled creature in hideous, torn robes. At the time, he’d once believed that she’d deserved more than _him_ , but she had, in fact, saved his life. Adam had owed her a debt of gratitude, and though he had given her the library and her freedom—Belle had indeed earned her freedom that night—he felt he ought to give her something beyond that. Something worthy of the compassion that she had bestowed upon him, despite him never having quite earned it.

He dressed himself in the finery that he’d been accustomed to as a young man, adorning his monstrous form in the silk brocade waistcoats and beautiful woolen great coats that Madame de Garderobe had enthusiastically sewn together by means that Adam still didn’t fully understand. He bathed, though the process was arduous, leaving his fur more tangled than when he began. Adam had made an attempt at brushing out the disobedient mess of brown knots, but his large beastly paws couldn’t manage the effort. For his troubles, he’d been rewarded with a splintered brush handle.  

So, he sought out the only person residing in the castle with capable human hands. Belle, who had helped him with the task not more than a week ago. Belle, who had combed her delicate fingers through his fur until he’d been lulled to sleep.

Adam had fixed her with a sheepish look that afternoon, presenting her with a brush that hadn’t met a disastrous demise at his paws while she was nestled in the colonnade, a book draped across her lap and a fur-lined cloak about her shoulders.

“Would you…?” he tried, heaving a sigh. “I cannot seem to manage it.” The chilly winter air prickled at his fur, still damp from the bath.

One corner of Belle’s mouth quirked upward slightly. The book snapped shut. “Of course,” she answered. “There no shame in asking for help now and again, is there?”

She stared at him pointedly, then moved a forgotten cup of tea to the other side of the bench. For a moment, Adam considered the length of time it would take for it to develop a layer of ice. Belle patted the freezing marble, inviting him to take the vacant space.

“I suppose not.”

And so, it became a near-weekly habit. Neither of them mentioned it, but it seemed to surprise both of them that they had fallen into comfortable routines.

Adam would settle with Belle in a drawing room or the library or a bench underneath a window that overlooked the castle grounds, and with each passing day, he’d felt just a little more human. Belle took care in dragging the brush through his fur, arranging it in a plait (he’d found that quite amusing), sometimes trimming it if it became unsalvageable. In return, he would read to her—poetry, philosophy, great histories of distant lands that they both dreamed of visiting.

Belle would trade stories with him, politely coaxing but never venturing into territories he did not wish to revisit. Though he was loathe to speak of his youth and adolescence, Adam let her languish in her own tales of her childhood roaming around France, enamored and perhaps a little envious of her simple upbringing with her father. He imagined often that her father and his mother would get along wonderfully, a fact that tugged at his heart even now.

Adam stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror of their shared West Wing bedchamber, morning light falling gracefully across the walls.

He looked human. Mostly.

Belle’s giggling broke the silence from somewhere behind his shoulder. He found her in the mirror’s reflection: dressed in his banyan—the one he’d worn while still a beast; Belle hadn’t wanted to part with it, claiming it still smelled of him—and barefoot, a book hugged against her chest. Her brown eyes sparkled in the soft yellow light, her hair a wave of chestnut over one shoulder, held back with a scrap of blue satin.

“For a moment there, I thought the spell had reversed itself,” Belle laughed. He heard the clatter of the book against a tabletop.

Adam raised an eyebrow. “Funny.”

“Yes, I think you look quite ridiculous.”

He whirled around and met her as she rose on tiptoe, pressing a kiss onto the tip of his nose. She pulled a few locks of unkempt dark blond hair through her fingers. A night’s sleep had turned it into a bird’s nest.

“At least I know you love me even when I look ridiculous.” Adam smiled, kissing her cheek.

Belle reached across to the vanity to retrieve a brush. “At least your hair isn’t as unmanageable as your fur.” Belle laughed. “Sit.”

“You _do_ remember that I have the luxury of human hands.” He lifted them, as if to prove the point.

“How could I forget? You seem to remind me at every opportunity. Luxury, indeed,” Belle teased. It was her turn to look sheepish. He saw the pink that crept across her cheeks. “Some habits are difficult to break, I’m afraid. If you’d be so kind as to oblige me?”

She pulled out the chair, and Adam settled into it. “I’d be most happy to, darling.”

Belle tugged the brush through his unruly hair like she’d so often done while the castle remained in its perpetual winter, in the days of their burgeoning friendship. He relished the softness of her touch, the warmth of her body hovering over him. There had been rare occasions where he’d shied away from her hands, moments where enduring physical contact had been too much for his deprived body to bear. But now Adam submitted to her without reluctance. She’d held his very life in her hands for a time. For that, Belle had earned his undying trust.

Adam felt her pull his hair into a tail, then watched through the mirror, eyes narrowed, as she wrenched the blue satin ribbon from her own chestnut waves. She hummed while she worked, weaving the gold strands into a plait before securing it with the ribbon that had once tamed her own hair. A feeling of warmth blossomed in the pit of Adam’s stomach once she had finished tying the ribbon into a bow. He couldn’t put into words how happy the casual act had made him, and that Belle had not thought twice about it.

He knew he would have a lifetime of such moments where Belle—the clever woman—would continue to surprise him.

“There.” She left a kiss on the top of his head, wearing a triumphant grin. “Not so beastly now.”

Adam rose to his feet. “Is that so?”

With an inhuman growl, Adam swept his wife off her feet, spinning her in circles until they both collapsed into tangled bed linens.

The day could wait for them, just a little longer.


	23. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #23: "Lies" On the night of the curse's impending end, 3 lies and a truth are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry for the huge delay in updating! I kind of got stuck in a writing rut while trying to work on other things. I hope this chapter is all right. Thank you for sticking with this fic!

As the air around him blazes forth with the heat of newly lit torches, Père Robert stands in horror, mouth slightly agape, frozen in the midst of chaos. Gaston is wild-eyed, crazed underneath the eerie orange flicker of the madness he’s incited. It strikes him then that even Monsieur LeFou is terrified of him, of what he might be capable of; Père Robert doesn’t question that for a single moment. It’s the look in Monsieur LeFou’s eyes that tells him everything about the man Gaston was in the heat of battle.

Gaston basks in their uproarious cheers, feeds off their doubts to justify his own craving for blood. For the hunt, Père Robert realizes, noting the hint of abhorrent jealousy he’d turned on Belle for speaking kindly of a so-called beast.

Belle, with conviction in her voice and her chin held aloft, a tiny figure standing tall against a mighty war-hardened solider, a vision in billowing gold. He only wishes these damned villagers possessed the same kind of courage, the resistance to fall prey to lies. The confidence to be different and walk into the unknown with _compassion_ , not blind hatred. Père Robert doesn’t know much about beasts, but he believes in Belle.

And the beast is before him, riling up a crowd for battle, fueled by deceit.

 ***

The wind howls across the turrets, kicking up light snowflakes that dance against the nighttime sky. He cannot begin to guess how much time has passed since he’s isolated himself from the warm confines of the castle, from the only family he’s ever known. It feels as though it’s been close to an eternity since the last speck of gold fled from the horizon, and an eternity more since their dance in the ballroom. Whatever eternity will mean for him now—trapped in this monstrous form, cursed for all of time; how can one fathom that much time?—he knows nothing will compare to the pain of watching Belle leave him. And realizing it is the last time he will gaze upon her face, get lost in the depths of her eyes, her kindness.

He’s resigned to the fact that she will not return. He thinks, for a moment perhaps, that he’ll be all right with it so long as it secures her happiness. Her freedom. That means more to him than breaking a curse. But there is guilt there, too—clawing at him like the wolves in the forest had torn at his flesh. He knows that their life sentence is worse for his castle family, doomed to silence for whatever an eternity is supposed to feel like. He’ll walk these vacant halls alone, wasting into nothing…

If he makes it that far. The snow has muted much of the noise that rises to the turrets, to the balcony where he’s left himself to succumb to despair. But somewhere underneath it, he hears voices, feels the castle beginning to give way from underneath them. Battles being fought. Villagers come to tear his home apart. And, he supposes, they want to kill him.

Just as well. Even a beast should not discover what an eternity can do to the soul.

Hunched near the stone ledge, he barely notices the soft footsteps, the presence of someone breaking his self-imposed isolation. It’s a hunter’s gait, all stealth and calculation, practiced and precise. He knows the rhythm they possess. He’s encountered one in the forest before, years ago. There’s a sudden burst of warmth until the torch the hunter carries is discarded, extinguished by the bitter air.

He thinks he hears the rustle of something else, but can’t place it. Turning ever so slightly, he sees a tall, broad figure in a red leather coat, dark hair pulled back, sharp eyes glistening in the moon’s weak light. A hunter’s gaze, too. Bird-like. For a moment the air is still and heavy between them. The hunter is armed with a pistol, which he finds aimed in his direction. There is enough bravado radiating from the hunter that for a second he wonders if it will crystalize in the night like the snow. But there is something else in the hunter’s eyes, if only for a fleeting instance of time. Disbelief? Shock?

“Hello, Beast.”

His muscles tense. The greeting overflows with arrogance. Hatred.

“I’m Gaston,” the hunter says, as if he cared to know. “Belle sent me.”

 _Belle sent me._ The words seem to stab him through the chest, and suddenly he can’t breathe. The world stops around him, suspended in time, darkened around the edges of his vision. His useless lungs seize up and fail him. It’s the bitter wind, he tries to tell himself. He shouldn’t care. He _shouldn’t_. She was never going to come back.

She was never going to love him.

 _Belle sent me._ The statement, so small, so simple, echoes over and over, filling the void of what an eternity must feel like.

 ***

The castle smells of fire and stone dust and gunpowder, but the scent of the white roses in the garden still clings to Agathe’s senses. She never anticipated her curse having such volatile effects, albeit indirectly. Oh, yes—Maurice losing his way, drawing his daughter Belle to the castle door, that had been planned to the very last detail once Agathe deemed her heart the only one capable of breaking the spell. But Gaston inciting the entire village to converge on this place and put up a fight had been quite a twist in the story. Part of her felt it was most fortuitous; if all went well, perhaps more than one lesson would be learned here tonight.

Her cloak glides across the marble floors where debris from the crumbling stone has scattered. In the midst of upheaval—objects flying, weapons drawn, battle cries of both servant and villager—she goes unnoticed. No one spares a glance. It is not so different from her life spent among them, playing the outcast, the beggar, always the object of pity or scorn. Less than. Exiled to a moss covered hovel in the woods and the streets less traveled to plead for her next meal. Of course, she liked her home under the massive trees, where her magic hummed along with the tranquility of the countryside. And her begging had a purpose. The villagers were unkind, judgmental.

Except one.

If only the tiny village knew what she was, what great power she was capable of. Soon, if all went well, they would know. How she hid among them. How she’d cursed them all.

Agathe knows the castle by memory though she hasn’t set foot in it since the night she brought winter here. Every corridor, every hidden pathway. The little drawing room the lady of the house favored. And as she leaves them behind to their hostilities, Agathe closes her eyes to let her true appearance shimmer through the disheveled exterior she’d created. Golden waves that cascade into the hood of her cloak. Bright, clear blue eyes. Cheeks tinged with the slightest rosy hue.

Agathe inhales deeply, reveling in the power of her magic, the power she’d kept concealed for so long. Magic thrums in her veins, circles her like vines trailing along the colonnade that only she can perceive, radiant and warm.

The rose calls out to her. It is weak. Terribly so. The last petal only has a few short minutes before it will wither, taking the whole of the castle into eternity with it.

But that is only the lie she needed Adam to believe.

 ***

The hunter had reached Adam first. Agathe smells his blood, spilled across the snow-covered stones, when she steps into the West Wing. The boy, now a beast; his time running out. Of course, the castle saw to it that the hunter met his own demise…and perhaps she would find the will to deal with him later.

But now the boy needed her help. Adam, the child she’d known before he was even born. Adam, who’d grown from a sweet, golden-haired boy with his mother’s smile to an arrogant, greedy bastard of a man reared by the ugly words of his deplorable father. The boy she’d turned into a beast in order to save him.

Though it wasn’t Agathe who had saved him.

It was Belle.

The proof of his love for her was dripping in ribbons across the stone, as red as the rose had been the night Agathe had presented it to him.

Agathe pauses, hovering over the dying rose. Belle is draped across his chest, her hand impossibly small in his, all chestnut curls and flowing white petticoats. The air is still and cold and heavy, laden with the girl’s tears. She’s sobbing—clutching at Adam’s shirt, her slight frame shuddering with the force of her sorrow. It’s a cry of heartbreak. True and real.

The rose shed its last petal in the same moment Adam gave up his life. Agathe had felt it, though she’d become transfixed by the intimate scene nestled in the ruins of the West Wing.

Belle’s whisper makes her heart soar.

“I love you.”

A truth—beautiful, clear, and genuine—among the lies that had led them all here. For Adam had learned to love and had earned the love of another in return.

With a sweep of her hands, Agathe sets them all free, in a gentle storm of golden light and rose petals.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & Comments are the best form of motivation! Let me know what you think. :)


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